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ST.  LOUIS  NIGHTS  WF  BUKNS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 


James  J.  McBride 


PRESENTED  BY 


Margaret  McBride 


''^^^c^t4  <iii^t-<^  (Leyuz£^ 


President 
The  Hums  Club  of  St.  Louis 


ST.  LOUIS  NIGHTS  WI'  BURNS 


BURNS  AND  RELIGION 
REV.  DR.  W.  C.  BITTING 


BURNS,  THE  WORLD  POET 

WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 


BURNS  AND  ENGLISH  POETRY 
PROFESSOR  J.  L.  LOWES 

BURNS  AND  THE  PROPHET  ISAIAH 

JUDGE  M.  N.  SALE 

BURNS  AND  THE  AULD  CLAY  BIGGIN 
FREDERICK  W.  LEHMANN 


THE  CLUB,  THE  ROOM,  THE  BURNSIANA, 
THE  NIGHTS 

WALTER  B.  STEVENS 


Printed  for  Private  Distribution 

to  Lovers  of  Burns 

by 

The  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis 

1913 


THE  MEM'RY  O'  BURNS 


PR 

4-3:29 
S/4 


ST.  LOUIS  NIGHTS  WF  BURNS 

To  the  Immortal  Memory,  the  Burns  Club  of  St. 
Louis  dedicates  its  fourth  tribute  in  printer's  ink.  "Poems 
and  Letters  in  Facsimile"  teas  the  club's  initial  contribu- 
tion to  Burns  literature.  This  zcas  follozved  by  "Burns 
AHghts  in  St.  Louis."  More  recently  zvas  reproduced  in 
facsimile  the  "Linvs  to  Burns'  by  Chang  Yozv  Tong,  a 
member  of  the  Imperial  Chinese  Commission  at  the 
World's  Pair. .  The  cordial  reception  given  to  these 
privately  issued  publications  by  lovers  of  Burns  in  many 
parts  of  the  ivorld  encouraged  the  club  to  present  "St. 
Louis  Nights  wi'  Burns." 

This  club  exists,  in  the  zvords  of  the  by-laivs,  "for  the 
purpose  of  commemorating  the  life  and  geiAus  of  Robert 
Btirns."  The  purpose  had  its  original  expression  in  the 
Burns  Cottage  at  the  World's  Pair  of  1904.  Reproduc- 
tions of  palaces,  copies  of  historic  mansions,  imposing 
types  of  architecture  of  many  latids  were  grouped  in  "The 
Place  of  A'atioiis,"  as  it  zvas  called.  In  the  midst  of  them 
zvas  the  replica  of  the  clay-zvalled,  strazv-thatched  birth- 
place of  him  zvho  "brought  from  Heaven  to  man  the 
message  of  the  dignity  of  hnmanity."  It  was  built  and 
maintained  by  the  Burns  Cottage  Association,  composed 
of  men  zvho  had  found  inspiration  in  the  creed  of  Burns. 
The  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis  succeeded  the  Cottage  Asso- 
ciation. It  has  a  permanent  home  in  the  upper  chamber 
of  the  quaint  house  of  the  Artists'  Guild.  Here,  about  the 
great  fireplace,  the  club  has  assembled  treasured  relics  of 
Burns'  life.  Upon  the  zvalls  are  portraits  of  Burns, 
sketches  of  scenes  made  fatniliar  by  his  zvritings  and 
facsimilies  of  many  poems  in  his  handzvriting.  The 
chamber  is  open- to  the  rafters.  It  has  little  zvindozvs  high 
up  under  the  eaves.  The  zvhole  interior  architecture 
accords  zvith  the  collection  of  Burnsiana  and  zvith  the  uses 
to  zvhich  the  chamber  is  put  by  the  club. 

Anniversaries  of  Burns  are  observed  by  the  Burns 
Club  of  St.  Louis  in  zvays  original.    Not  forgotten  arc  the 


•1C45247 


oatmeal  cake,  the  haggis,  the  Scotch  shortbread.     There 

are  "barley  brec  an  sic  like  at  ca." 

"But  nane  need  drink  that  are  na  dry." 

By  way  of  introduction  to  the  dinner  the  president 

repeats  the  Selkirk  Grace: 

Some  hac  meat,  and  canna  eat, 
And\  some  ivad  eat  that  zvant  it; 
But  we  hae  meat  and  zve  can  eat, 
And  sac  the  Lord  be  tJianket. 

In  nmnbcrs  the  club  is  not  unzuieldy.  The  members 
ail  comfortably  the  table  running  the  length  of  the  cham- 
ber, with  room  for  a  congenial  guest  or  two.  There  is 
enough  Scotch  blood  in  the  gathering  to  save  the  flavor  of 
Scotch  speech.  But  the  membership  ranges  widely  in 
nativity,  in  creed  and  in  vocation.  The  spirit  of  Burns 
pervades  and  abides.  Lines  zvith  zvhich  this  spirit  is 
invoked  are  found  by  the  president  of  the  club  in  such 
quotations  from  Burns  as  the  bard's  ozvn  farezvell  to  the 
brethren  of  St.  James  lodge  at  Tarbolton: 

A  last  request  perinit  me  here 
When  yearly  ye  assemble  a,' 
One  round,  I  ask  it  with  a  tear, 
To  him,  the  Bard,  that's  far  awa'. 

As  the  night  progresses,  there  are  stories  of  Burns; 
there  are  spirited  discussions  on  opinions  about  Burns; 
there  are  quotations  and  interpretations;  there  is  singing 
of  songs  of  "rantin'  rovin'  Robin." 

The  more  formal  event  of  the  evening  is  a  thought- 
ful address  on  Burns,  sometimes  given  by  a  member  of 
the  club,  sometimes  delivered  by  a  guest.  A  member  of 
the  club  returning  to  his  chair  from  the  most  recent  of 
these  St.  Louis  Nights  zvi'  Burns  gave  this  editorial 
expression  to  his  feeling: 

One  of  the  proofs  of  the  greatness  of  Robert  Burns  as  a 
poet  is  the  fact  that  his  birthday  celebrations  are  unsurp'a\ssed  as 
feasts  of  reason  and  flow  of  soul.  The  subject  is  inexhaustibly 
rich  and  enjoyable. 

The  editor  had  sat  for  an  hour  under  the  spell  of 
Rev.  Dr.  Bitting's  z'ivid  tracing  of  relationship  between 
Robert  Burns  and  relinous  matters.  W.  B.  S. 


BURNS  AND  RELIGIOUS  MATTERS 

By  Rev.  Dr.  W.  C.  Bitting, 
Pastor,  Second  Baptist  Church,  St.  Louis 

January  25,  1913 

/^NLY  the  most  surprisinjy  results  of  original 
^^  research  could  yield  anything  new  about  Robert 
Burns.  Every  Scotchman  has  exhausted  himself,  and 
almost  everybody  else,  in  the  effort  to  find  a  fresh  ray 
for  the  aureole  of  the  Ayrshire  poet.  Even  invention 
has  not  been  ignored.  He  has  already  passed  the  first 
stage  in  his  canonization,  since  some  of  his  Caledonian 
adorers  do  not  deem  sober  facts  ample  enough  to 
account  for  the  real  and  imaginary  glories  of  Burns. 
They  have  also  allured  other  nationalities  into  their 
growing  cult.  The  puzzles  of  the  personality  of  their 
fellow  countryman  have  entrapped  the  interest  of  many 
nations.    Burns  is  high  up  on  the  Scotch  totem  pole. 

It  is  most  natural  that  any  reader  of  the  poet 
should  use  his  own  spectacles.  I  have  therefore  chosen 
"Robert  Burns  and  Religious  Matters"  as  my  topic  for 
this  evening.  We  must  not  put  upon  him  our  modern 
twentieth  century  ideals,  because  they  are  develop- 
ments since  his  day.  He  must  be  judged  only  by  the 
standards  of  his  own  times.  Scarcely  anything  could 
be  more  fertile  in  error  and  misconception  than  to 
thrust  back  upon  any  past  age  attainments  and  ideals 
of  which  it  knew  nothing.  It  should  not  be  condemned 
for  failure  to  stand  the  test  of  a  higher  life  developed 
later  than  itself.  And  yet  this  is  the  foolish  way  in 
which  the  ignorant  always  study  the  Bible,  or  religion, 
and  all  things  else.  To  judge  of  Burns'  attitude  to 
religious  matters  we  must  know  the  conditions  in  his 
times.     He  was  a  true  son  of  his  age. 

Burns  was  an  incarnation  of  contradictions.  They 
appear  in  his  poems,  life  and  letters.     He  was  equally 


at  home  with  the  philosophers  in  Edinburgh  or  the 
roistering-  bacchanaHans  in  Poosie  Nansie's  dram  shop. 
Salon  and  saloon  alike  allured  him.  He  was  dainty  and 
dirty  in  the  same  poem,  saintly  and  satanic  in  the  same 
amour.  He  satirized  and  sanctified  the  church  in  the 
same  criticism.  Angel  and  demon  are  equally  in  evi- 
dence in  his  own  heart.  He  could  write  glorious  lines 
for  his  father's  epitaph,  and  erotic  boasts  of  his  own 
shame  at  the  same  time.  As  Carlyle  says,  "'Wild  desires 
and  wild  Repentance  alternately  oppress  him."  We 
would  amend  by  substituting  simultaneously  for 
"alternately."  "His  mind  was  at  variance  with  itself," 
is  an  accurate  judgment  by  the  same  biographer.  He 
was  a  lover  at  once  devilish  and  divine.  All  this  shows 
itself  in  what  he  wrote  because  it  was  his  life.  In  1786, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-seven  years,  he  wrote  to  Robert 
Aiken,  "Even  in  the  hour  of  social  mirth,  my  gaiety 
is  the  madness  of  an  intoxicated  criminal  under  the 
hands  of  the  executioner."  And  in  this  he  was  not 
alone.  St.  Paul  himself  had  the  same  strife 
(Ro.  7:19-23).  All  of  us  know  the  same  experience. 
It  is  inevitable.  It  is  the  evidence  of  our  slow  human 
evolution  from  beasts  into  men.  It  is  absent  from  no 
heart  and  life.  Only,  these  two  elements  vary  in  differ- 
ent persons.  In  Burns  both  shone  brilliantly.  Now 
we  are  sure  that  the  holy  life  will  triumph,  and  now  we 
are  certain  that  he  has  resigned  himself  to  carnality, 
and  finally  the  old  puzzle  remains  unsolved,  and  insol- 
uble except  as  an  illustration  of  the  upward  pull  of 
man,  and  the  downward  pull  of  the  beast,  in  their 
eternal  tug  of  war  over  our  souls. 

But  this  mixture  glows  in  its  perplexity  in  Burns 
only  to  those  who  fail  to  realize  a  very  splendid  trait  of 
character  revealed  in  all  that  he  was  and  did.  He  was 
sincere.  This  showed  itself  in  two  ways.  He  had  a 
mind  like  the  sensitive  plate  of  a  camera.  It  photo- 
graphed things.  He  painted  what  he  saw,  whether  the 
uprooted  daisy,  the  limping  hare,  the  field  mouse,  the 

6 


peasant  worker,  the  lass,  the  kirk,  the  preacher,  the 
drunken  l)eg-gar,  the  besotted  tramp,  or  the  pious  home. 
So  accurate  is  he  in  this  social  and  literary  photo- 
graphy that  we  can  construct  almost  the  whole  of  his 
environment  from  his  literature.  He  will  not,  like  the 
modern  journalist,  distort  and  lie  about  men  and  events. 
Moreover,  he  sang  what  he  felt.  He  is  autobiographic. 
As  few  writers  he  turns  himself  inside  out  and  lets  us 
see  the  crevices  and  corners  of  his  soul.  He  is  what 
he  is,  and  lets  us  see  what  he  is.  It  may  not  be  always 
good,  and  is  not  always  bad,  but  he  has  no  use  for  the 
sign  "No  Admittance"  over  his  soul.  He  makes  tres- 
passing impossible  because  he  throws  open  the  whole 
of  himself  to  all  the  world.  There  is  no  reserve  spot, 
no  private  ground  with  a  barbed  wire  fence  about  it. 
We  can  tramp  over  every  nook  of  his  soul.  Our  feet 
are  now  soiled  with  his  filth,  now  dance  with  his  glee, 
and  now  we  sit  down  and  pull  ofif  our  shoes  for  we 
step  from  hell  upon  holy  ground  almost  in  an  instant. 
Mountains  and  meadows,  sun  spots  and  shades,  alti- 
tudes and  caverns  of  his  being  are  all  open  to  the 
public,  and  over  everything  is  the  word,  "Welcome." 
This  quality  of  sincerity  revealed  both  in  photo- 
graphing what  is  external,  and  in  uncovering  himself, 
is  essentially  religious.  Burns  was  no  hypocrite,  and 
was  unsparing  in  his  detestation  of  hypocrisy.  These 
words  in  an  epistle  to  John  Rankine  show  his  scorn  for 
sham  saints.     He  writes  in  delicious  irony : 

"Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it! 
That  holy  robe,  oh.  dinna  tear  it! 
Spare't  for  their  sakes  wha  often  wear  it, 

The  lads  in  black! 
But  your  curst  wit,  when   it  comes  near  it, 
Rives't  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye're  skaithing 
It's  just  the  blue-gown  badge  and  claithing 
O'  saunts;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naething 

To  ken  them  by, 
Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 

Like  you  or  I." 


He  had  no  use  for  make-believe  either  in  literature 
or  in  living.  He  ripped  off  veneering  whenever  he  saw 
it.  He  wore  no  mask  and  detested  masqueraders  in 
life  or  letters.  He  loved  nakedness.  Would  that  he 
could  now  tear  off  the  disguises  of  our  modern  busi- 
ness, literature,  religion,  and  social  life.  He  is  needed 
to  expose  the  degrading  adoration  of  the  dollar  that 
twists  into  hideous  deformity  our  newspapers,,  indus- 
tries, parlors,  politics,  and  sometimes  our  churches. 
This  prophetic  spirit  he  had,  as  we  shall  see.  It  is 
this  very  sincerity  that  yields  us  the  astonishing  and 
puzzling  mixture  of  light  and  night  in  poem  and  per- 
son. But  it  explains  the  puzzle,  since  it  tells  us  that  he 
was  only  human.  It  clarifies  the  problem  because  in 
him  humanity  was  unusual.  Most  men  are  only 
embryonic.  Only  the  minority  pass  the  period  of 
gestation.  He  is  not  grayish  neutrality.  He  was  no 
uninteresting  nondescript.  A  brilliant  devil  is  more 
fascinating  than  a  dull  saint.  Likewise  a  sincere  saint, 
even  if  only  really  a  caricature,  is  more  interesting  than 
a  conventional  imp. 

Let  us  now  look  at  some  of  the  directions  in  which 
this  camera  poet  turned  his  lens,  and  also  gaze  into 
the  soul  by  means  of  his  own  confessions.  We  are  not 
his  judges,  but  only  reporters.  We  are  not  here  to 
appraise  his  qualities  so  much  as  to  describe  them. 

1.  He  made  use  of  and  reverenced  the  Bible.  Of 
course  it  was  the  Bible  as  conceived  in  his  day,  not 
the  Book  that  our  modern  sane  and  reverent  scholar- 
ship gives  us.  His  poems  have  many  quotations  from 
the  Scriptures.  His  letters  give  ample  evidence  of  his 
familiarity  with  them.  His  "songs"  are  almost  lacking 
in  allusions  to  them.  Like  the  majority  of  modern  men 
and  church  members,  he  read  the  Bible  with  a  kind  of 
superstitious  reverence,  glorified  it  as  the  "Word  of 
God,"  according  to  the  cant  of  orthodoxy,  used  it  as  a 
source  of  quotations,  but  failed  to  incarnate  its  teach- 
ings. In  this  respect  he  was  neither  worse  nor  better 
than  his  orthodox  contemporaries.  If  his  vices  of  the 
flesh   violated   some   of   the   ideals   of   the   Bible,   theirs 


smashed  other  spiritual  and  intellectual  ideals  of  the 
Scriptures.  His  uses  of  passap^es  from  the  Book  are 
all  conventional.  He  exchanged  Bibles  with  Jean 
Armour  one  Sunday  under  the  most  solemn  circum- 
stances. His  own,  in  two  volumes,  was  inscribed  in 
his  own  hand.  In  volume  I  was  written,  "And  ye  shall 
not  swear  b\-  my  name  falsely.  I  am  the  Lord,  Levit. 
19th  chapter,  l"^th  verse.''  In  volume  II,  "Thou  shalt 
not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the  Lord 
thine  oath.  Matth.  5th  chapter  33d  verse.''  In  the 
whirl  of  passion  that  followed  this  sentimentally  holy 
pledge  he  forgot  both  passages.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that  Mary  Campbell's  name  was  in  one  of  these 
volumes  given  to  Jean  as  pledge,  but  both  Mary's  and 
Robert's  names  were  almost  obliterated  when  the  two 
volumes  were  found.  Did  Jean  Armour  try  to  erase 
Mary  Campbell's  in  jealousy,  and  Burns'  in  anger? 

Like  all  of  us  Burns  quoted  Scripture  to  reinforce  his 
own  plans,  views,  and  moral  conditions.  What  would 
we  do  without  such  a  consolatory  convenience?  His 
quotations  are  from  all  parts  of  both  Testaments,  and 
often  there  are  allusions  without  quotations.  It  is  true 
that  no  one  can  thoroughly  understand  Burns'  poems 
or  letters  without  some  knowledge  of  the  Bible.  The 
same  is  true  of  Shakespeare  and  Ruskin.  The  know- 
ledge of  the  Scriptures  is  necessary  if  one  would  read 
English  literature  intelligently.  No  one  who  is  ignor- 
ant of  the  Bible  can  call  himself  cultured.  And  no 
unintelligent  familiarity  with  the  mere  language  of 
the  Bible  qualifies  one  to  speak  sanely  of  its  character 
or  teachings.  One  may  know  its  words  by  heart  from 
cover  to  cover,  and  yet  be  densely  ignorant  of  its  nature 
and  significance. 

Burns  has  left  us  splendid  versifications  of  the 
first  Psalm,  and  part  of  the  90th.  How  we  wish  he  had 
revised  many  of  the  uncouth  and  ragged  metrical  ver- 
sions of  his  time.  Many  of  his  ancestors  and  contem- 
poraries, judged  by  their  products,  appear  to  have 
thought  that  piety  and  good  poetry  are  inconsistent. 
This  mistake  is  also  common  today. 


In  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  he  has  described 
family  worship  at  the  close  of  the  week.  Doubtless  he 
has  there  photographed  for  us  his  father's  priesthood 
in  the  home.  There  is  no  satire  therein.  Burns'  shafts 
were  only  for  hypocrisy.  No  doubt  his  knowledge  of 
the  Bible  came  from  his  own  reading  of  the  Book,  as 
well  as  from  family  prayers,  and  the  church  services. 
In  all  his  published  works  there  is  no  sneer  at  the  Bible, 
no  word  to  detract  from  its  influence  over  life.  On  the 
contrary  he  is  always  reverent,  even  in  the  face  of 
many  things  that  would  naturally  provoke  such  a 
sincere  soul  to  satire.  He  had  enough  brains,  as  some 
even  in  our  day  do  not,  to  distinguish  between  the 
Holy  Book  itself,  and  the  misuse  of  it  by  ardent  but 
mistaken  friends.  His  "Epistle  to  John  Goudie, 
Kilmarnock,"  called  out  by  Goudie's  essay  on  the 
authority  of  the  Scriptures,  evidently  an  assault  upon 
the  orthodox  view  of  the  time,  shows  Burns'  deep 
sympathy  with  any  movement  that  would  end  devotion 
to  the  "letter  that  killeth." 

"Poor  gapin',  glowrin,^  Superstition, 
Waes  me  !  she's  in  a  sad  condition; 
Fie  !  bring  Black  Jock,''  her  state  physician. 

To  see  her  water: 
Alas  !  there's  ground  o'  great  suspicion 
She'll  ne'er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  long  did  grapple 
But  now  she's  got  an  unco  ripple;' 
Haste,  gie  her  name  up  i'  the  chapel, 

Nigh  unto  death; 
See  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple,* 

And  gasps  for  breath! 

Enthusiasm's  past  redemption, 

Gaen'  in  a  galloping  consumption, 

Not  a'  the  quacks,  wi'  a'  their  gumption. 

Will  ever  mend  her. 
Tier  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption 

Death  soon  will  end  her." 


'StarinR. 

^Rev.  Jno.  Russell,  Kilmarnock,  one  of  the  heroes  of 

the    "Twa    Herds." 
'Pain   in  back  and   loins. 
^Throat. 

10 


11.  Burns'  Theology.  He  believed  in  God.  He 
did  not  believe  in  such  a  capricious  deity  as  was 
preached  by  the  ultra-Calvinism  prevalent  in  his  day. 
It  was  not  God  himself,  but  a  caricature  of  him  that 
Burns  satirized.  Without  the  trainin.^  that  qualified 
him  to  debate  with  the  theological  lo.c^icians  of  his  day, 
and  without  the  ecclesiastical  standing  that  could  give 
him  the  opportunity  to  do  so,  even  if  he  had  been 
technically  prepared,  he  had  left  no  weapon  but  ridi- 
cule. We  can  enjoy  what  must  have  been  most  dis- 
tressing and  irreverent  to  the  theologians  and  their 
unthinking  followers  of  his  time.  Listen  to  this  from 
Holy  Willie's  Prayer. 

"O  Thou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel. 
Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 

A'  for  thy  glory, 
And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 
They've  done  afore  thee! 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou   might   hae   plunged   me   into   hell, 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail. 

In  burnin'  lake, 
VVhare  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain'd   to  a  stake.' 


What  stronger  picture  could  we  have  of  the  arbi- 
trary God  created  by  the  necessities  of  Augustinian  and 
Calvinistic  theology? 

Turn  from  this  to  Burns'  own  view  of  God.  Read 
this  prayer  written  in  a  time  of  contrition. 

"O  Thou  great  Being !  what  Thou  art 
Surpasses  me  to  know: 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  Thee 
Are  all  Thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands. 

All  wretched  and  distrest; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  thy  high   behest. 

11 


Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
Oh,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears. 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design! 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves, 

To  bear  and  not  repine!" 

And  this  prayer  written  "in  the  prospect  of  death." 

"O  Thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  my  hope  and  fear, 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour. 
Perhaps  I  must  appear! 

If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun; 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  I  have  done; 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  has  form'd  me 

With  passions  wild  and  strong; 
And  listening  to  their  witching  voice 

Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short. 

Or  frailty  stept  aside. 
Do  Thou,  All-good!  for  such  Thou  art. 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where   with    intention    I    have   err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have. 
But,  Thou  art  good;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive." 

In  none  of  his  poems  does  he  call  God  "Father." 

The  Christian  name  for  God  is  found  in  his  letters,  but 

nowhere  else.    He  speaks  of  him  as  "Almij^^hty  Cause," 

"All  Good,"  "Author  of  Life,"  "Great  Governor  of  all 

below,"  "Omnipotent  Divine."     He  is  a  theist.     He 

declares 

"An  atheist's  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended." 

12 


And  yet  in  an  Epistle  to  David  Sillar  he  has  a 
beautiful  stanza  about  his  Jean,  in  which  he  addresses 

God, 

"O  Thou,  whose  very  self  art  love!" 


Scant  indeed  are  his  allusions  to  Jesus  Christ.    In 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  13,  1789,  he  writes: 

"Jesus  Christ,  thou  amiablest  of  characters !  I  trust  Thou 
arc  no  impostor,  and  that  thy  revelation  of  blissful  scenes 
of  existence  beyond  death  and  the  grave  is  not  one  of  the 
many  impositions  which  time  after  time  have  been  palmed 
on  credulous  mankind.  I  trust  that  in  Thee  "shall  all  the 
families  of  the  earth  be  blessed,"  by  being  yet  connected 
together  in  a  better  world,  where  every  tie  that  bound  heart 
to  heart,  in  this  state  of  existence,  shall  be,  far  beyond  our 
present  conceptions,  more  endearing." 


Burns  seems  far  more  familiar  with  sin  and  the 
devil  than  with  righteousness  and  the  Deity.  His 
"Address  to  the  Deil"  embodies  the  traditional 
Miltonian  Satan,  with  touches  of  current  peasant 
notions,  and  pulpit  ideas  of  his  nocturnal  visits  to  the 
trysting  places  with  which  Burns  was  familiar.  As 
for  sin,  he  had  no  philosophy  of  it,  but  a  vast  experience 
of  its  terrible  reality.  He  knows  it  sorely.  Read  this 
written  "in  the  prospect  of  death."  Only  bitter  experi- 
ence could  have  penned  it: 

"For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms; 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  His  sin-avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  'Forgive  my  foul  offence!' 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey; 
But  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense. 
Again  T  might  desert  fair  Virtue's  way; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray; 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray. 

Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn'd,  yet  to  temptation  ran." 

13 


As  to  the  future  Burns  often  expressed  himself. 

He  strongly  believed  in  a  life  beyond  the  grave.     In 

1789  be  writes  to  one  whose  name  is  not  given,  and 

addresses  Ferguson  who  is  dead : 

"If  there  be  a  life  beyond  the  grave,  which  I  trust  there  is; 
and  if  there  be  a  good  God  presiding  over  all  nature,  which 
I  am  sure  there  is;  thou  art  now  enjoying  existence  in  a 
glorious  world,  where  worth  of  the  heart  alone  is  distinction 
in  the  man;  where  riches,  deprived  of  all  their  pleasure-pur- 
chasing powers,  return  to  their  native  sordid  matter;  where 
titles  and  honours  are  the  disregarded  reveries  of  an  idle, 
dream ;  and  where  the  heavy  virtue,  zvhich  is  the  negative  con- 
sequence of  steady  dulness,  and  those  thoughtless,  though 
often  destructive,  follies,  which  are  the  unavoidable  aberra- 
tions of  frail  human  nature,  will  be  thrown  into  equal  oblivion 
as  if  they  had  never  been !" 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  the  same  year: 

"Religion,  my  dear  friend,  is  the  true  comfort!  A  strong 
persuasion  in  a  future  state  of  existence;  a  proposition  so 
obviously  probable  that,  setting  revelation  aside ;  every  nation 
and  people,  so  far  as  investigation  has  reached,  for  at  least 
near  four  thousand  years,  have  in  some  mode  or  other  firmly 
believed  it.  In  vain  would  we  reason  and  pretend  to  doubt. 
I  have  myself  done  so  to  a  very  daring  pitch;  but  when  I 
reflected  that  I  was  opposing  the  most  ardent  wishes  and  the 
most  darling  hope  of  good  men,  and  flying  in  the  face  of  all 
human  belief  in  all  ages,  I  was  shocked  at  my  own  conduct." 

To  Mr.  Cunningham  the  next  year: 

"I  hate  a  man  that  wishes  to  be  a  Deist;  but  I  fear  every 
fair  unprejudiced  inquirer  must  in  some  degree  be  a  sceptic. 
It  is  not  that  there  are  any  very  staggering  arguments  against 
the  immortality  of  man;  but,  like  electricity,  phlogiston, 
&c.,  the  subject  is  so  involved  in  darkness  that  we  want 
data  to  go  upon.  One  thing  frightens  me  much;  that  we  are 
to  live  forever,  seems  too  good  neivs  to  be  true.  That  we 
are  to  enter  into  a  new  scene  of  existence,  where,  exempt 
from  want  and  pain,  we  shall  enjoy  ourselves  and  our  friends 
without  satiety  or  separation — how  much  should  I  be  indebteo 
to  any  one  who  could  fully  assure  me  that  this  was  certaini 

Burns  believed  in  man,  and  that  is  a  large  part  of 
the  religion  of  Jesus  who  had  the  optimism  to  hope 

14 


that  he  could  reach  the  dregs,  and  save  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  the  race.  "The  Jolly  Beggars,"  and  "Man 
was  made  to  Mourn,"  and  "Is  there,  for  Honest  Pov- 
erty?" and  many  other  expressions  reveal  his  love  for 
man  as  man.    His  famous  lines  are  quoted  all  over  the 

world : 

"The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 
The  Man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 

"Then  let  us  pray  that  come  if  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a"  that, 

It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that." 

And  these  two  ideals,  the  worth  of  the  individual,  and 
human  brotherhood  are  distinctly  Christian  teachings. 
But  the  Calvinism  of  Burns'  day  did  not  do  them 
justice. 

HI.  Bums'  attitude  towards  the  Church  is  xinmis- 
takable.  The  minister  and  session  of  the  Church  to 
which  he  belonged  had  properly  protected  its  reputa- 
tion and  discipline  by  forcing  the  young  libertine  to 
submit  to  the  penalties  prescribed  for  such  flagrant 
derelictions  as  his.  The  efifect  of  this  discipline  upon 
Burns  was  not  at  all  redemptive.  He  needed  love,  not 
castigation.  But  beyond  this  personal  reason  for  vin- 
dictiveness  there  were  two  other  reasons  that  animated 
his  satires  on  current  ecclesiasticism,  both  of  which  we 
must  approve.  First,  his  growing  mind,  so  absolutely 
sincere,  could  not  tolerate  the  artificial  doctrine  he 
had  been  taught;  and  second,  his  thoroughly  trans- 
parent nature  could  not  brook  the  hypocrisy  in  the  lives 
of  many  cluirch  members.  Three  things,  his  experience 
of  church  discipline,  his  honest  intellectual  life,  and  his 
hatred  of  shams  combined  to  produce  satires  that  stand 
unsurpassed  in  their  class.    The  list  is  long. 

15 


In  "The  Twa  Herds"  he  describes  two  preachers, 
who  had  been  intimate  friends,  quarrelling  over  parish 
boundaries.  In  this  satire  he  names  no  less  than  eleven 
ministers. 

"O  Moodie  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 
How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle, 
Ye'll  see  how  New-Light  herds  will  whistle. 

And  think  it  fine: 
The  Lord's  cause  ne'er  gat  sic  a  twistle 
Sin'  I  hae  min'. 

What  flock  wi'  Moodie's  flock  could  rank, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank? 
Nae  poison'd  sour  Arminian  stank 

He  let  them  taste. 
Frae  Calvin's  well,  aye  clear,  they  drank — 

Oh,  sic  a  feast!" 

They  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance. 
And  Learning  in  a  woody'  dance. 
And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair. 
Be  banish'd  o'er  the  sea  to  France: 

Let  him  bark  there." 


'Halter. 


In  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer,"  he  satirizes  the  petition 
of  William  Fisher,  a  drunkard  and  libertine,  who  had 
been  active  in  denying  Burns'  friend,  Gavin  Hamilton, 
church  privileges  because  he  made  a  journey  on 
Sunday,  and  on  another  Sunday  got  one  of  his  servants 
to  take  in  some  potatoes  from  the  garden.  It  is  the 
prayer  of  a  33d  degree  Pharisee,  as  Burns  writes  it. 
And  in  the  "Epitaph  on  Holy  Willie,"  he  addresses  the 
Devil,  closing  as  follows  : 

But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are. 

Look  something  to  your  credit; 
A  coof"  like  him  wad  stain  your  name, 
If  it  were  kent  ye  did  it." 

spool. 

16 


In  "The  Ordination,"  he  takes  off  the  devotion  to 
trailitionalism,  and  the  hobbies  of  ministers  who  tor- 
ment candidates  for  the  j^astorate.  He  names  some 
of  them.  Hear  one  stanza  that  reflects  Burns'  con- 
sciousness of  his  discipline: 

"There,  tr3'  his  mettle   on   the  creed, 

And  bind  him  down  \vi'  caution, 
That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

He  taks  but  for  the  fashion; 
And  gie  him  owre  the  flock  to  feed. 

And  punish  each  transgression; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin, 
Spare  them  nae  day." 

In  his  "Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly 
Righteous"  he  satirizes  those  complacent  saints  who 
spend  their  time  in  pointing  out  the  sins  of  others. 

"Ye   see   your   state   wi'  theirs   compared. 

And  shudder  at  the  nififer,' 
But  cast  a  moment's   fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave. 

That   purity  ye   pride   in. 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'"  wrang. 

To  step  aside,  is  human: 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis   He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us; 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring — its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute. 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted."' 


'Comparison. 
=A  little  bit. 


17 


In  "The  Holy  Fair,"  the  keenest  of  all  his  diatribes, 
he  satirizes  what  had  become  a  scandal  and  disgrace  to 
the  Church,  the  tattle,  and  giddiness,  the  social  abuses 
that  had  sprung  up  about  the  observance  of  the  Holy 
Communion.  Here  also  he  names  many  ministers. 
Hear  his  description  of  Moodie's  sermon : 

"Hear  how  he  clears  the  points   o'   faith 
Wi'  rattlin'  and  wi"  thumpin'! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 

He's  stampin'  and  he's  jumpin'! 
His  lengthen'd  chin,  his  turn'd-up  snou... 

His  eldritch^  squeal,  and  gestures, 
Oh,  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 
Like   cantharidian   plasters, 
On  sic  a  day!" 


^Unearthly. 

And  his  comment  on  the  result  of  the  day's  doings 

"How  mony  hearts  this  day  converts 
O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night,  are  gane,' 

As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 
There's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine', 

There's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy; 
And  mony  jobs  that  day  begin 
May  end  in  houghmagandy" 
Some  ither  day." 


^Gone. 

^Childbirth. 

Hear  how  he  described  the  love  of  dogma  mingled 
with  the  neglect  of  ethics,  in  "A  Dedication  to  Gavin 
Hamilton."    It  is  keen  irony: 

"Morality  thou  deadly  bane, 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain! 
Vain  is  his  hope  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice! 

No — stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack;' 

Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back: 

Steal  through  a  winnock"  frae  a  whore, 

But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door. 

Be  to  the  poor  like  ony  whunstane. 

And  baud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane, 

Ply  every  art  o'  legal  thieving; 

No  matter,  stick  to  sound  believing. 

18 


Learn   three-mile   prayers,   and   half-mile   graces, 
Wi'  weel-spread  looves,'  and  lang  wry  faces; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthen'd  groan, 
And  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own; 
I'll  warrant  then,  ye're  nae  deceiver — 
A  steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer." 

'A  coin,   one-third  of  a  penny. 

-Window. 

^Palms  of  hands. 

In  "The  Kirk's  Alarm,"  he  described  the  conster- 
nation of  the  theologians  over  the  alleged  heterodoxy 
of  McGill,  and  Dalrymple,  two  ministers  of  Ayr.  Here 
also  he  mentions  many  names. 

"Orthodox,  orthodox. 

Wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 
Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience — 

There's  a  heretic  blast 

Has  been  blawn  i'  the  wast. 
That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Doctor  Mac.'  Doctor  Mac, 

You  should  stretch  on  a  rack 
To  strike  evil  doers  wi'  terror; 

To  join  faitit  and  sense, 

Upon  ony  pretence, 
Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons. 

Seize  your  spiritual  guns. 
Ammunition  you  never  can  need; 

Your  hearts  are  the  stufT 

Will  be  powther  enough, 
And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o'  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Burns, 

Wi'  your  priest-skelping  turns, 
Why   desert   ye   your   auld    native    shire? 

Your  Muse  is  a  gipsy — 

E'en  though  she  were  tipsy. 
She  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are." 


'McGill. 


In  his  "Elegy  on  Peg  Nicholson,"  a  "good  bay 
mare"  that  belonged  to  his  friend,  Burns  closes  with  a 
stanza  that  expressed  his  contempt  for  the  people  that 
stood  the  Auld-Light  ministry. 

"Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 
And  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair; 
And  much  oppressed  and  bruised  she  was 
As  priest-rid  cattle  are." 

19 


In  "Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook,"  he  expresses  his 
opinion  of  some  preachers  in  the  following  fashion : 

"Some  books  are  lies  fra  end  to  end 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn'd: 
E'en  ministers,  they  hae  been  kenn'd, 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid^  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail't  wi'  Scripture." 


•Lie. 


Burns  at  the  request  of  his  friend  Hamilton 
brought  him  the  text  of  a  sermon  he  heard  a  minister 
preach.  It  was  "And  they  shall  go  forth  and  grow  up 
like  calves  of  the  stall,"  Mai.  -i  :2.  On  this  sermon  he 
wrote  "The  Calf."    Listen  to  these  stanzas: 

"Right,  sir!  your  text  I'll  prove  it  true, 
Though  heretics  may  laugh; 
For  instance,  there's  yoursel  just  now, 
God  knows,  an  unco  calf ! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind 

And  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na,  sir,  but  then  we'll  find 

Ye're  still  as  great  a  stirk.^ 

And  when  ye're  number'd  wi'  the  dead, 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
\\/i'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head, 

'Here  lies  a  famous  bullock!'" 


'A    one-year-old    bullock. 

In  a  letter  to  a  New-Light  minister.  Rev.  John 
M'Math,  enclosing  a  copy  of  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer," 
he  writes  his  opinion  of  the  Auld-Light  preachers : 

"But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 
Their  sighin',  cantin',  grace-proud  faces, 
Their  three-mile   prayers,   and   half-mile   graces; 

Their  raxin"  conscience, 
Whase  greed,  revenge,  and  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor^  their  nonsense. 

20 


O  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts, 
To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 
I'd  rii)  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts. 

And  tell  aloud, 
Their  jugglin'  hocus-pocus  arts. 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 

God  knows,  I'm  no  the  thing  I  should  be. 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be. 
But  twenty  times  1  rather  would  be 

An  atheist  clean. 
Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be 

Just  for  a  screen." 


'Stretching. 
"Worse   than. 


All  these  things  and  others  were  not  aimed  at  the 
Church,  still  less  at  religion  itself,  but  were  deadly 
shots  at  ministerial  shams,  at  theological  fictions, 
human  make-believes,  and  noisome  fungi  that  had 
attached  themselves  to  the  tree  of  life.  Read  this  from 
his  letter  to  M'Math : 

"All  hail,  Religion!  maid  divine! 
Pardon  a  Muse  sae  mean  as  mine. 
Who,  in  her  rough  imperfect  line, 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee; 
To  stigmatise  false  friends  of  thine 
Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 

O  Ayr!  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
Within  thy  presbyterial  bound, 
A  candid  liberal  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers. 
As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renown'd, 

And  manly  preachers." 

The  movement  to  rationalize  the  current  theology 
was  called  "Common  Sense."  It  was  ridiculed  as  heresy 
as  are  all  movements  away  from  the  unbelievable  pro- 
ducts of  literalism,  and  of  mechanical  interpretation  of 
the  Scriptures.  With  this  movement,  espoused  by  a 
faction  that  came  to  be  called  "New-Lights,"  in  dis- 
tinction from  the  orthodox  "Auld- Lights,"  Burns  was 

21 


in  hearty  sympathy.  A  most  amusing  description  of 
the  difference  between  Auld-Lights  and  New-Lights, 
ilkistrated  by  their  contradictory  opinions  about  the 
moon  will  be  found  in  the  Postscript  to  his  delightful 
"Epistle  to  William  Simpson."  Many  regret  that  these 
satires  were  written.  But  such  critics  fail  to  realize  the 
reasons  as  given  above,  and  also  the  good  they  did  in 
laying  bare  Pharisaism  and  pretense.  Inevitably  they 
produced  in  the  minds  of  some  persons  coarse  and  pro- 
fane thoughts  about  sacred  things.  There  are  always 
some  who  cannot  distinguish  between  religion  and  its 
vehicles  and  expressions.  But  Burns  was  a  photog- 
rapher here  also.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  exagger- 
ated conditions.  Moreover,  he  carefully  distinguished 
between  the  genuine  and  the  counterfeit,  and  aimed  to 
retire  from  circulation  what  he  thought  was  spurious. 
Against  religion  itself  he  uttered  not  a  word  of  ridicule. 
He  tore  off  only  its  current  provincial  and  grotesque 
garments.  In  proof  of  this  remember  that  "The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,"  which  Lockhart  and  many  others 
deem  his  best  poem,  was  written  by  the  same  heart  and 
hand,  and  about  the  same  time  as  "The  Holy  Fair,"  his 
most  effective  satire.  Because  he  could  honestly  praise 
his  father's  religion  and  reverence  for  the  Bible,  he  was 
forced  to  condemn  pretence  and  irreverent  misuse  of 
the  Scriptures.  He  told  the  truth,  and  that  is  what 
hurt.  There  was  often  antagonism  between  Scotch 
verse  and  Scotch  theology.  How  interesting  it  would 
be  if  we  could  collect  all  that  he  wrote  about  Moodie, 
and  see  how  the  preacher  Burns  so  cordially  despised 
appeared  to  the  poet.  In  all  this  Burns  really  per- 
formed a  service  for  which  religion  should  always  be 
thankful.  If  good  people  are  the  "salt  of  the  earth," 
and  religion  is  really  the  saving  factor  in  social  life, 
the  uncovering  of  sham  living  and  thinking  in  any  age 
is  a  social  service.  The  weaklings  who  are  fed  on  the 
pap  of  ages,  who  walk  the  way  of  life  staked  out  by 
pious  aristocrats  that  assume  to  regulate  the  paths  of 

22 


the  multitude,  who  jog  alonj^  therein  to  the  age-old 
drum  beat  of  a  hierarchy,  who  prattle  and  chatter  the 
vocabulary  of  cant,  who  fuss  over  millinery  and 
genuflections,  who  row  over  shibboleths,  who  think  to 
please  God  with  the  holy  stink  of  an  incense  pot,  who 
confuse  form  with  substance,  who  substitute  creed- 
mongering  for  righteousness,  will  always  squirm  when 
any  realist  tears  away  mere  accidents  in  order  to  reveal 
essence.  Yet  this  method  often  seems  to  be  the  only 
way  to  emancipation.  The  process  is  painful  to  many, 
but  salutary. 

IV.  Burns'  ideas  of  religion.  It  was  a  true 
judgment  of  Burns  that  religion  itself  is  something 
more  vital  than  theories  about  the  inspiration  of  the 
Bible,  and  the  logic  and  syllogisms  of  theologians,  and 
church  membership.  He  saw  all  this  confused  with 
religion.  However  much  or  little  may  be  lacking  in  his 
conceptions  of  what  religion  is  will  depend  upon  the 
standards  of  the  critic.  There  are,  however,  utterances 
of  Burns  that  prove  that  he  carried  his  characteristic 
sincerity  and  transparency  into  his  ideas  of  religion. 
He  writes  to  Mr.  Cunningham,  "But  of  all  nonsense, 
religious  nonsense  is  the  most  nonsensical." 

He  describes  his  atonement  in  his  marriage  with 
Jean  Armour,  in  this  language  in  a  letter  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  Bishop  Geddes : 

"in  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  of  man,  there  was 
ever  but  one  side  on  which  I  was  habitually  blamable,  and 
there  I  have  secured  myself  in  the  way  pointed  out  by  nature 
and  nature's  God.  I  was  sensible  that,  to  so  helpless  a 
creature  as  a  poor  poet,  a  wife  and  family  were  encumbrances, 
which  a  species  of  prudence  would  bid  him  shun,  but  when 
the  alternative  was,  being  at  eternal  warfare  with  myself  on 
account  of  habitual  follies,  to  give  them  no  worse  name,  which 
no  general  example,  no  licentious  wit,  no  sophistical  infidelity, 
would,  to  me,  ever  justify,  I  must  have  been  a  fool  to  have 
hesitated,  and  a  madman  to  have  made  another  choice.  Besides, 
I  had  in  "my  Jean"  a  long  and  much-loved  fellow-creature's 
happiness  or  misery  among  my  hands — and  who  could  trifle 
with  such  a  deposit?" 

23 


In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Macauley,  of  Dumbarton,  con- 
cerning his  home  life  he  writes : 

"As  I  am  entered  into  the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  I 
trust  my  face  is  turned  completely  Zion  ward;  And  as  it  is 
a  rule  with  all  honest  fellows  to  repeat  no  grievances,  I  hope 
that  the  little  poetic  licences  of  former  days  will  of  course 
fall  under  the  oblivious  influence  of  some  good  natured  statute 
of  celestial  prescription.  In  my  family  devotion,  which,  like 
a  good  Presbyterian,  I  occasionally  give  to  my  household 
folks,  I  am  extremely  fond  of  the  psalm,  "  Let  not  the  errors 
of  my  youth,"  etc.,  and  that  other;  "Lo!  children  are 
God's  heritage,"  &c.,  in  which  last  Mrs.  Burns,  who  by 
the  by  has  a  glorious  "wood-note  wild,"  at  either  old  song  or 
psalmody,  joins  me  with  the  pathos  of  Handel's  'Messiah.'  " 

He  states  his  creed  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dnnlop,  June 
21,1789: 

"I  have  just  heard  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  preach  a  sermon.  He 
is  a  man  famous  for  his  benevolence,  and  I  revere  him,  but 
from  such  ideas  of  my  Creator,  good  Lord,  deliver  me! 
Religion,  my  honoured  friend,  is  surely  a  simple  business,  as 
it  equally  concerns  the  ignorant  and  the  learned,  the  poor 
and  the  rich.  That  there  is  an  incomprehensible  great  Being, 
to  whom  I  owe  my  existence,  and  that  He  must  be  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  operations  and  progress  of  the  eternal 
machinery,  and  consequent  outward  deportment  of  this  crea- 
ture which  He  has  made — these  are,  I  think,  self-evident 
propositions.  That  there  is  a  real  and  eternal  distinction 
between  virtue  and  vice,  and  consequently,  that  I  am  an 
accountable  creature;  that,  from  the  seeming  nature  of  the 
human  mind,  as  well  as  from  the  evident  imperfection,  najs 
positive  injustice,  in  the  administration  of  affairs,  both  in  the 
natural  and  moral  worlds,  there  must  be  a  retributive  scene 
of  existence  beyond  the  grave,  must,  I  think,  be  allowed  by 
every  one  who  will  give  himself  a  moment's  reflection.  I  will 
go  farther,  and  affirm  that,  from  the  sublimity,  excellence, 
and  purity  of  His  doctrine  and  precepts,  unparalleled  by  all 
the  aggregated  wisdom  and  learning  of  many  preceding  ages, 
though  to  appearance.  He  himself  was  the  obscurest  and  most 
illiterate  of  our  species — therefore  Jesus  Christ  was  from 
God." 

He   boldly   judges   himself   in    this   letter    in   these 
words : 

'Whatever  mitigates  the  woes  or  increases  the  happiness 
of   others,    this   is   my   criterion    of   goodness;    and   whatever 

24 


injures   society  at   large   or  any   individual   in   it,   this   is   my 
measure  of  iniquity." 

The  next  year  he  writes  to  Mr.  Hill : 

"God  knows  I  am  no  saint;  I  have  a  whole  host  of  follies 
and  sins  to  answer  for,  but  if  I  could,  and  I  believe  I  d'O  it  as 
far  as  I  can,  I  would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes.'' 

His  view  of  Life  is  expressed  in  the  "Lines  Written 
in  Friars'  Carse  Hermitage,  on  the  Banks  of  the  Nith," 
June,  1783 : 

"Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 
Day,  how  rapid  in  its  flight — 
Day,  how  few  must  see  the  night; 
Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 
Happiness   is   but   a   name. 
Make  content  and  ease  thy  aim; 
Ambition  is  a  meteor  gleam; 
Fame  an  idle,  restless  dream: 
Pleasures,  insects  on  the  wing, 
Round  Peace,  the  tenderest  flower  of  Spring! 
Those  that  sip  the  dew  alone, 
Make  the  butterflies  thy  own; 
Those  that  would  the  bloom  devour, 
Crush  the  locusts — save  the  flower. 
For  the  future  be  prepared, 
Guard  whatever  thou  canst  guard: 
But,  thy  utmost  duly  done. 
Welcome  what  thou  canst  not  shun. 
Follies  past  give  thou  to  air. 
Make  their  consequence  thy  care: 
Keep  the  name  of  man  in  mind. 
And  dishonour  not  thy  kind. 
Reverence  with  lowly  heart 
Him  whose  wondrous  work  thou  art; 
Keep  His  goodness  still  in  view, 
Thy  trust — and  thy  example,  too." 

It  is  donbtftil  whether  he  improved  these  lines  by 
their  second  version  five  years  later,  1788. 

25 


Burns'  "Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend"  (Andrew 
Aiken)  is  full  of  the  soundest  ethics,  and  should  be 
committed  to  memory  by  every  young  man.  As  every- 
thing else  it  is  autobiographical.  Every  stanza  is  rich, 
I  quote  only  two : 

'"The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed   love. 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  the  illict  rove, 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it: 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  of  concealing; 
But,  och!  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling ! 

When  ranting  round  in   Pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heaven 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor!" 

The  distinctively  Christian  note  is  very  faint  in 
Burns.  He  has  little  to  say  about  the  world's  Master 
of  the  Art  of  living.  But  there  are  many  traces  of  the 
influence  of  Jesus  Christ  upon  his  thinking  and  ideals. 
Simple  goodness,  actual,  not  the  theological  fiction  of 
imputed  righteousness;  the  pity  and  mercy  of  God, 
that  came  in  his  hours  of  remorse  and  gloom,  not  the 
relentless  judicial  deity  of  Calvinism ;  the  worth  of 
every  man,  not  the  celestial  value  of  an  elect  few  which 
he  heard  proclaimed  from  the  ])ulpit  of  the  Old-Light; 
the  brotherhood  of  men,  not  the  distance  between  them 
illustrated  by  the  Pharisaism  he  saw ;  these  are  lines 
of  the  teachings  of  Jesus  that  he  felt  over  against  the 
hard  legalism  preached  in  the  orthodox  kirk. 

Burns  treats  seriously  all  religious  matters.  He  is 
no  less  in  earnest  in  his  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  than  in 
the  Holy  Fair.  His  vitriolic  words  are  never  directed 
against  the  Bible,  nor  sane  thinking  in  religion,  nor 

26 


consistent  Christian  living.  All  these  he  glorifies.  But 
he  pierces  every  bubble  blown  by  bombast.  For  him 
the  body  of  divinity  does  not  consist  in  the  tomes  of 
Calvinism  studied  by  the  theologians  of  his  day,  nor 
in  the  sermons  so  repugnant  to  his  intellectual  self- 
respect,  but  in  any  group  of  men  and  women  who  can- 
not think  straight  and  walk  crooked  at  the  same  time. 
He  wanted  a  theology  that  differed  from  that  on  the 
mediaeval  disk  run  into  the  eighteenth  century  pulpit 
victrola.  The  wave  of  intellectual  sincerity  that  was 
part  of  the  French  Revolution  no  doubt  sent  its  spray 
to  Scotland.  But  Burns'  own  soul,  that  would  nowhere 
screen  itself,  was  ready  for  the  moistening  of  the  Gallic 
tide.  It  did  not  wash  him  from  his  moorings  into 
infidelity.  Had  his  personal  life  corresponded  with  his 
religious  ideals  he  would  have  been  Scotland's  greatest 
religious  reformer.  Knox  freed  it  from  the  spell  of 
priestcraft.  Burns  would  have  freed  it  from  the  blight 
of  dead  orthodoxy.  But  his  vices  made  him  only  a 
critic,  not  a  constructive  power.  He  unmasked  hypo- 
crisy. He  plunged  his  keen  rapier  up  to  the  hilt 
into  caricatures  of  religion.  He  cartooned  the  theolog- 
ical parrots  so  that  they  became  ridiculous.  He  was  an 
expert  in  destruction.  One  can  not  help  trying  to 
imagine  what  effect  his  tremendous  energy,  confined  to 
assault  upon  the  weakness  of  the  religion  of  his  day, 
would  have  accomplished  had  he  been  equally  strong 
in  illustrating  in  his  own  character  and  life  the  positive 
constructive  ideals  he  so  nobly  expressed.  He  believed 
in  God,  but  God  was  not  the  controlling  power  in  his 
life.  He  glorified  the  Bible,  but  did  not  incarnate  its 
ethical  and  religious  ideals.  He  wrote  nobly  of  the  life 
beyond  the  grave,  but  had  no  plan  for  his  own  life  that 
extended  beyond  his  tomb.  All  this  so  far  as  his  writ- 
ings and  life  show. 

Yet  we  dare  not  judge  him  finally.  Who  is  Ijold 
enough  to  limit  the  love  of  the  Father  that  is  exhaust- 
less  in  its  pity  for  those  "who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn'd, 
yet  to  temptation  ran."    Hear  Burns'  prayer: 

27 


"Oh,  Thou  great  Governor  of  all  below! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea; 
With  that  controlling  power  assist  even  me. 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  conhne, 
For  all  untit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be. 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allow'd  line: 
Oh,   aid    me    with   Thy   help.    Omnipotence    Divine." 

The  bitter  tooth  of  remorse  lacerated  his  soul.  But 
excesses  had  weakened  his  will.  His  self-control  shriv- 
elled. He  stands  before  us  as  almost  a  classic  example 
of  a  perpetual  struggle  between  virtue  and  passion, 
a  continuous  moving  picture  show  of  the  strife  between 
a  mind  whose  ethical  ideals  are  evermore  growing  and 
clarifying,  and  a  body  diseased  and  unable  to  resist  its 
habits,  a  human  tennis  ball  flying  back  and  forth 
between  the  divine  and  the  diabolical.  He  wrote  as  he 
lived,  not  from  ambition  but  from  feeling.  All  he 
wrote  and  did  was  a  sample  of  himself.  He  was  ever- 
more autobiographical.  We  can  do  no  better  than  to 
quote  from  the  epitaph  he  wrote  for  himself  ten  years 
before  he  died.  When  he  wrote  it  he  penned  both  his- 
tory and  prophecy : 

"Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear. 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs   himself   life's   mad  career 

Wild  as  the  wave? 
Here  pause — and,  through  the  starting  tear, 
Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know. 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame, 
P)Ut  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name! 

Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  Hole, 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root." 

28 


T  N  THE  room  of  tlie  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis  is  the  original 
■'•  of  "Lines  to  Burns"  by  Chang  Yow  Tong.  Of  the  varied 
collection  of  Burnsiana  none  is  more  prized.  Chang  Yow 
Tong  was  a  highly  cultivated  member  of  the  Chinese  Imperial 
Commission.  He  wrote  in  1904  "Human  Progress  as  shown 
at  the  World's  Fair  in  St.  Louis,"  dedicating  the  volume  of 
graceful  verse  "To  Universal  Peace."  The  opening  of  the 
Exposition  drew  from  him  "China's  ^Message  to  Columbia." 
In  sentiment  and  composition  these  were  of  no  ordinary  char- 
acter, but  in  his  "Lines  to  Burns"  the  poetic  genius  of  Chang 
Yow  Tong  found  its  most  notable  expression;  it  flamed  with 
the  spirit  of  the  bard.  The  inspiration  of  the  "Lines"  was  the 
coming  dedication  of  the  replica  of  the  Burns  Cottage  at  the 
World's  Fair;  that  ceremony  was  on  the  24th  of  June,  1904, 
Bannockburn  Battle  day.  The  address  of  dedication  was 
delivered  by  Sir  Hugh  Gilzean-Reid,  president  of  the  World's 
Press  Parliament.     Chang  Yow  Tong  was  one  of  the  guests. 


29 


'"pHESE  "Lines  to  Burns,"  reproduced  in  facsimile  of  the 
-*■  Chinese  poet's  autographed  copy,  are  treasured  by  Burns' 
Clubs  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  They  were  sent  on  the  one 
hundred  and  fifty-third  anniversary  with  the  greeting  of  the 
Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis  to  members  of  the  Burns  Federation. 
From  Kilmarnock,  Thomas  Amos,  honorary  secretary  of  the 
Federation,  wrote: 

"I  have  been  asked  by  the  office  bearers  of  the  Federation 
to  express  to  your  club  our  gratitude  for  your  kindness  in 
sending  such  a  unique  greeting.  I  can  assure  you  it  has 
been  much  valued.  From  newspapers  which  I  have  received 
I  see  that  excellent  poem  has  been  read  at  Burns  Clubs  in 
Scotland,  England  and  Ireland.  To  me  it  is  wonderful  that 
an  Oriental  has  so  caught  the  spirit  of  Burns  and  has  seen 
right  into  the  heart  of  his  teachings.  At  our  great  gathering 
in  Glasgow  in  September,  I  read  the  poem  to  more  than  three 
hundred  delegates  from  all  parts  of  the  United  Kingdom  and 
it  was  received  with  great  applause.  A  tribute  to  our  bard 
such  as  you  have  sent  makes  us  feel  that  the  wished  for  time 
"when  man  to  man  the  world  o'er  shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that" 
is  nearer  than  we  imagine." 


LINES  TO  BURNS 

By  Chang  Yow  Tong, 
Chrnese  Imperial  Commissioner 

Inspired  by  the  Burns  Cottage,  World's  Fair,  1904 

O!  kindred  soul  of  humble  birth, 
Divine,  though  of  the  lowly  earth, 
Forgotten  thou  art  not  to-day, 
Nor  yet  neglected — here's  thy  bay! 

Thy  cottage-home,  hid   from   the  proud, 
Nor  thought  of  by  the  vulgar  crowd 
In  thine  own  time,  has  claimed  a  place 
On  which  the  world's  eyes  now  gaze. 

Nor  changed  its  homely,  rugged  lines, 
Where  closely  crept  thy  tender  vines; 
But  men  have  changed:  nor  yet  deplore- 
Where  once  they  spurned  we  now  adore. 

Thy  life  and  work  and  destiny 
Contain  a  meaning  deep  for  me; — 
Though  fame  be  darkened  by  a  fate, 
The  laurel-wreath  comes  soon  or  late. 

Thy  splendid  fame  shall  ever  rise 
With  undimm'd  glory  o'er  the  skies; — 
To  struggling  souls  a  hope  shall  yield 
On  sailing  seas  and  ploughing  field. 

I  am  a  foreign,  unknown  bard, 
Whose  devious  course  is  rough  and  hard; 
But  cheered  at  times  by  thy  sweet  song, 
I  sing  away,  nor  mind  the  throng. 

Like  thee,  I'll  toil  with  manly  hand. 
Like  thee,  by  manhood  ever  stand; 
And,  guided  by  thy  spirit  brave. 
Shall  wait  for  verdict  at  the  grave. 


31 


MIDWAY  in  a  mile  of  St.  Louis  culture  stands  the  quaint 
Artists'  Guild.  This  mile  begins  with  the  monumental 
entrances  of  Westmoreland  and  Portland  Places,  through 
which  are  vistas  of  parking  between  double  drives  bordered 
by  mansions.  Then  come  towering  apartment  houses  of  the 
highest  class.  A  few  steps  farther,  on  the  left  are  the  great 
gateways  of  Kingsbury  Place  and  Washington  Terrace,  while 
eastward  Westminster  and  Washington  Boulevards  seem- 
ingly narrow  in  the  distance  to  lanes  with  overhanging  trees. 
Beyond  is  a  group  of  churches,  varied  in  architecture  and 
creed — Presbyterian,  Christian,  Unitarian,  Congregational  and 
Episcopalian.  Sandwiched  between  two  of  them  is  the  club 
house  and  art  gallery  of  the  Artists'  Guild,  the  home  of  the 
Burns  Club  and  of  the  Franklin  Club.  In  close  alignment 
are  the  Soldan  High  School  and  the  William  Clark  Grammar 
School,  latest  and  best  of  public  school  architecture  and 
equipment  in  the  country.  Clustered  opposite  and  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  are  the  Smith  Academy  and  the  Manual 
Training  School  of  Washington  University  and  two  of  the 
academies  of  the  Catholic  sisterhoods — Visitation  and  St. 
Phijomena.  Windermere  and  Cabanne  Places,  with  their  fine 
residences,  are  laterals.  Cabanne  Library,  the  Model  Police 
Station  and  the  great  St.  Ann  Asylum  complete  this  mile  of 
St.  Louis  culture.  Well-named  Union  Avenue!  What  a 
fitting  center  for  a  shrine  to  Robert   Burns! 


32 


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o 


The  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis  is  rich  in  Burnsiana.  Among 
the  relics  which  furnish  the  unique  club  room  are  a  table 
which  was  owned  by  Burns  when  he  lived  at  Dumfries,  a 
table  from  the  Tam  O'Shanter  inn,  a  third  table  made  of  wood 
from  St.  Michael's  church  at  Dumfries,  a  little  chair  which 
vva.s  the  favorite  seat  of  Burns  in  his  childhood,  another  chair 
from  the  cottage  in  Ayr  and  the  old  arm  chair  of  Mrs.  Tam 
O'Shanter, 

Where  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame. 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

The  great  chimney  and  fireplace  at  one  end  of  the  long 
club  room  provide  the  ingle-nook  which  is  occupied  by  an 
old  spinning  wheel  and  reel  of  the  Armour  family.  On  the 
opposite  side  is  the  "dresser"  or  sideboard  with  an  array  of 
the  Club's  tableware — quaint  bowls  and  plates  and  ashets. 

Upon  the  mantel,  over  the  fireplace,  are  candlesticks  of 

Burns'  time,  and  near  by  hang  "Bonnie  Jean's"  iron  holder 
and  the  "girdle"  on  which  the  cakes  were  baked.  "Bonnie 
Jean's"  milking  stool,  a  cupboard  and  table  which  belonged  to 
a  family  where  Burns  visited  much,  a  chair  that  was  used 
often  by  the  poet,  and  the  eight-day  clock  one  hundred  and 
thirty  years  old  give  atmosphere  to  this  home  of  the  Burns 
Club  of  St.  Louis. 

The  walls  of  the  chamber  are  hung  with  reminders  of 
Burns.  There  are  the  original  drawings  made  by  John  Burnet 
to  illustrate  Tam  O'Shanter,  an  oil  painting  of  the  Burns 
Cottage  at  the  World's  Fair,  facsimiles  of  many  of  the  best 
known  poems  of  Burns  in  his  handwriting,  prints  and  sketches 
of  Scottish  scenes  made  familiar  by  the  poet. 

No  St.  Louis  Night  wi'  Burns  passes  without  additions  to 
this  priceless  collection  of  Burnsiana. 


33 


CT.  LOUIS  was  the  first  city  outside  of  the  British  Isles  to 
dedicate  a  permanent  memorial  in  marble  to  Robert  Burns. 
On  the  9th  of  June,  1866,  a  life  size  bust  of  Burns  was  un- 
veiled with  fitting  ceremonies  in  the  Mercantile  Library.  It 
was  the  work  of  the  sculptor,  William  Brodie,  R.  S.  A.  The 
bust  stands  on  a  mahogany  pedestal  in  which  are  panel 
scenes  from  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Tarn  O'Shanter  and 
Auld  Brig  o'  Doon.  This  memorial  was  presented  to  the 
Mercantile  Library  by  the  Caledonian  Society  of  St.  Louis. 
Fourteen  years  after  St.  Louis  had  paid  tribute  to  Burns, 
a  memorial  was  unveiled  in  New  York  City.  Other  Am.eri- 
can  cities  have  since  honored  the  poet  in  a  similar  manner. 
At  the  St.  Louis  World's  Fair  was  erected  the  first  replica  of 
the  cottage  in  which  Burns  was  born.  The  cottage  was  taken 
to  the  Lewis  and  Clark  Exposition  at  Portland.  Prompted  by 
the  great  interest  shown  in  the  "auld  clay  biggin',"  other 
cities  have  erected  reproductions  of  the  Burns  cottage. 


34 


TO  ROBERT  BURNS 

By  Orrick  Johns 

Re«d  at  the  meeting  of  the  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis,  on  the 
anniversary  of  the  poet's  birth,  January  25,  1913 

Burns,  your  name  is  on  the  tongue 

Of  the  multitude  to-day, 
But  the  world  you  knew  when  young 

Goes  upon  her  wonted  waj'. 

Like  a  painted  hoyden,  she 

Gives  her  love  where  gold  is  plenty; 
Nor  has  changed  a  jot  or  tittle 

Since  your  years  were  two-and-twenty. 

Burns,  from  cot  and  hovel  now. 
Haply  poets   are   upspringing, 

But  the  world  would  not  allow 
They  are  any  good  for  singing. 

They  will  rhyme  and  love  and  labor 
As  you  did  by  Dumfries  town, 

Hate  the    Kirk   and  curse   the   neighbor. 
Call   the   wrath   of   Heaven   down 

On  the  unco  guid,  and  lordly — 
Fight  the   plucky,   worldly  light; 

And  at  bottom  find  a  healthy 
Streak   of  sacred   human   light! 

That's  what  you,  man,  long  were  doing 
Far  on  Scotland's  bonny  moors. 

Living  hard  and  lightly  wooing. 
Learning  meanwhile  what  endures. 

Your  good  neighbors,  maids  and  men. 

Took  you  for  an  idle  devil, 
Loved  you  somewhat  now  and  then. 

Kicked  you  oft,  to  make  it  level. 

And  you  railed  and  scorned  and  scoffed 
Out  of  woe  and  passion  pouring 

Words  that  wing  the  heart  aloft 
Like  the  lark  at  daybreak  soaring, 

35 


Ah,  then,  what  the  devil,  Burns! 

Though  the  poet  be  untended, 
Though   the  town   in  worship  turns 

To    the    fortunate    and    splendid — 

Soon  the  word  that's  truly  spoken 
Lodges  in  the  common  breast, 

Though  by  love  and  living  broken 
He  who  spoke  it  is  at  rest! 

Burns,  shall  we  then  try  to  change  her, 
The  world  to  poets  stern  and  cruel? — 

Or  wish  them  dauntless  hearts  in  danger. 
To  make  their  fires  of  starry  fuel! 

Damn  it,  man,  the  things  that  hurt  you 
Healed  you,   for  you  bore  them  well; 

And  if  they  found  you  short  on  virtue. 
Gad,  you're  singing  sweet  in  Hell! 

Aye,  we  know  you're   singing  sweetly 
Though  the  Devil  be  your  theme — 

Far  from  Doon  and  Kirk  and  Cotter, 
Lost  in  immemorial  dream. 


36 


BURNS,  THE  WORLD   POET 

By  William   Marion  Reedy, 
Editor  of  The  Mirror,  St.  Louis 

January  25,  1912 

E\^EX  before  presenting  my  apologies  for  my  poor 
effort  of  this  evening,  I  would  express  my  sincere 
thanks  to  this  assemblage  for,  not  alone  the  honor  of 
its  invitation,  but  for  having  coerced  me  into  the  per- 
formance of  a  duty  that  should  have  been  done  any 
time  these  thirty  years.  Until  I  was  told  by  Mr.  Dick, 
who  seems  for  some  time  to  have  adopted  me  as  his 
King  Charles'  head,  so  far  as  concerns  this  address,  that 
I  would  be  expected  to  say  something  to  the  Burns 
Club,  I  had  never  read  the  poems  of  Robert  Burns. 
About  thirty  years  ago,  at  college,  I  essayed  the  task 
and  abandoned  it.  The  dialect  was  too  much  for  me — 
as  I  doubt  not  it  has  been  for  better  men.  I  remember 
cherishing  a  theory,  which,  several  times,  I  advanced 
to  one  of  your  most  estimable  members,  Mr.  Lehmann, 
in  "wee  short  hours  ayon't  the  twal."  to  the  effect  that 
Burns  possessed  an  advantage  over  all  other  poets  in 
that  in  his  writing,  when  he  could  not  find  a  rhyme  in 
one  language  he  took  it  from  another,  and  so  achieved 
a  purely  adventitious  felicity  through  the  mixture  of 
the  familiar  and  the  strange.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
tell  you  this,  unless  it  is  because  I  am  affected  by  that 
psychic  wave  of  confession  which  has  swept  the  coun- 
try, beginning  with  the  McNamaras,  in  Los  Angeles, 
ranging  east  to  Massachusetts  and  overcoming  the 
poisoner  of  Avis  Linnell  of  Hyannis,  ricocheting  thence 
to  Washington  and  prompting  Henry  Watterson  to 
proclaim  his  sin  that  he  had  mistaken  a  schoolmaster 
for  a  statesman. 

Of  course  I  read  about  Burns ;  one  could  not  well 
help  it  if  one  maintained  even  that  remote  relation  to 

37 


literature  implied  in  conducting  a  more  or  less  literary 
paper.  Even,  I  wrote  about  Burns  from  time  to  time 
with  that  fatal  facility  and  felicity  of  half  knowledge, 
or  no  knowledge,  which  enables  the  journalist,  by 
means  of  tags  and  cliches  and  generalities,  successfully 
to  counterfeit  omniscience.  But,  at  the  word  of  the 
Burns  Club,  I  have  read  my  Burns  and  for  my  continu- 
ing sin  of  many  years,  my  punishment,  involving  yours, 
is  here  and  now. 

What  shall  I  say  of  Burns  to  you  gentlemen  who 
know  him  by  heart,  who  have  enshrined  him  in  your 
heart  of  heart,  who  have  fondled  that  first  edition  in 
which  his  own  hand  and  pen  filled  out  for  his  friend 
Geddes  the  lacunae  in  the  poems  indicated  by  asterisks 
or  dashes?  I  ask  your  pardon  for  trying  to  say  any- 
thing; but  the  retribution  of  my  long  dereliction  must 
be  fulfilled. 

It  was  not,  at  first,  with  me  as  with  Keats,  on 
first  reading  Chapman's  "Homer" — no  new  planet 
swam  into  my  ken.  I  found  myself  rather  in  the  atti- 
tude of  our  all  too  nearly  forgotten  humorist.  Bill  Nye, 
when  he  first  witnessed  the  play  of  "Hamlet" ;  it  was  very 
good,  but  it  was  too  full  of  quotations.  As  the  read- 
ing progressed  and  the  marking  of  the  passages,  it  was 
borne  in  upon  me  how  great  a  poet  was  Burns  by  the 
number  of  his  lines  that  have  been  practically  absorbed 
into  the  language  of  the  people.  There  they  were, 
enough  to  make  a  biggish  bibelot — passage  after  pas- 
sage, so  familiar  that  even  I  knew  them.  And  often 
these  passages  were  whole  poems.  Then  was  impressed 
upon  me  that  Burns  is  a  world-poet,  the  poet  not  only 
of  the  man  in  the  street,  but  of  the  poet,  and  I  stood 
like  stout  Balboa  and  all  his  men,  viewing  the  Pacific 
in  a  mute  surprise,  "silent  upon  a  peak  of  Darien."  But 
now  I  rejoice  that  I  dined  late  at  that  feast,  that  I  came 
to  it  with  some  experience  of  sin  and  folly  not  unlike 
the  poet's  own. 

38 


The  poet  has  tokl  his  life  story  in  his  song,  and 
told  it  with  a  splendid  simplicity,  in  the  language  of  the 
Scots  farmer  and  peasant.  When  he  essays  literary 
English,  speaking  generally,  the  magic,  the  glamour 
vanishes.  What  a  life  of  copious  content  was  that  of 
P)urns,  from  the  hour  when  a  "blast  o'  Januar'  win' 
bknv  hansel  in  on  Robin"  to  the  last  hour  in  which  he 
passed  away  after  an  execration  upon  the  agent, 
Alathew  Penn,  who  was  hounding  him  for  a  "damned 
haberdasher's"  I)ill.  Whatever  he  did  with  his  life,  he 
lived  it — every  hour  of  it.  He  came  into  the  world 
the  heir  to  a  remote  romantic  tradition  of  sacrifice  by 
his  ancestors  in  the  cause  of  the  hapless,  worthless,  but 
fascinating  Stuarts.  His  father  was  no  peasant,  but  a 
farmer,  strong-willed  but  not  "hard,"  a  man  of  some 
education,  of  a  tendency  decidedly  generous  and 
humane  in  religious  matters,  when  we  contrast  it  with 
the  dour  creed  of  the  time  and  place.  His  mother  was 
more  emotional,  more  sympathetic  and  she  possessed  a 
wide  knowledge  of  Scottish  folk  song,  supplemented 
later  by  a  still  more  encyclopaedic  knowledge  of  that 
subject  by  an  elderly  neighbor,  Jenny  Davidson.  Thus 
Burns  came,  splendidly  dowered  in  head  and  heart, 
gifted  with  a  grasp,  a  hunger  for  all  of  life.  Good  sense 
and  sentiment,  reason  and  passion,  all  his  days,  waged 
a  mighty  struggle  in  his  heart.  The  push  and  the  pull 
of  these  forces  gave  him  the  full  swing  of  the  pendulum 
— all  the  ecstacies  of  life,  from  rejoicing  to  regret.  His 
spirit  seized  upon  each  detail  of  experience,  warmed  it, 
fashioned  it  into  forms  of  perdurable  beauty  which  still 
speak  their  message  to  all  the  children  of  men.  Burns 
had  the  ink  in  his  veins  and  as  things  moved  his 
thought  or  his  emotion  he  wrote  them  off.  Life  was 
the  matter  of  his  song. 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  in  my  head. 
Or  lassies  gie  my  heart  a  screed, 
As  whyles   they're   like   to   be   my   dead, 

(O  sad  disease!) 
I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed: 

It  gies  me  ease. 

39 


Therefore,  while  I  would  not  minimize  the  poet's 
woes,  I  would  say  that  their  very  intensity  made  for 
their  more  perfect  expression,  in  which,  even  as  we, 
the  poet  himself  found  an  exquisite  delight  of  their 
communicableness.  He  suffered  for  his  and  our  gain. 
His  early  days  at  the  plough's  tail,  doing  a  man's  work 
at  fifteen,  gave  him  touch  with  nature,  a  touch  delicate 
or  strong,  as  need  was,  sure,  brief,  direct,  miraculously 
comprehensive  when  he  imparts  his  thought  to  us.  No 
great  poet  wastes  so  few  words  as  Burns  in  giving  us  a 
thought  or  a  picture  and  no  poet's  taste  is  truer  at  its 
multifarious  best.  The  eye  for  nature  never  better 
justified  itself  than  in  such  a  poem  as  the  elegy  of 
"Matthew  Henderson,"  the  "Westlin  Wind"  or  "Hallc^- 
ween,"  with  their  landscapes  done  in  a  few  strokes,  full 
of  light  and  the  sense  of  the  goodliness  of  the  world  of 
sky  and  wood  and  wimpling  water  and  the  wee  timor- 
ous beasties  of  the  wild,  the  field  and  fold.  As  we  read 
that  long  and  painful  iliad  of  the  successive  failures  of 
the  Burns  farms,  were  not  our  hearts  light  we  should 
die,  for  pity  of  it,  did  we  not  remember  that  out  of  it 
all  he  drew  a  philosophy  and  a  poetry  full  of  "the  hate 
of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn,  the  love  of  love."  He  early 
knew  his  Bible  history,  his  Pope,  his  Shakespeare,  his 
Locke  on  the  "Human  Understanding,"  and  he  read  Allan 
Ramsay's  poems  while  he  followed  the  plow,  distin- 
guishing the  sincerity  from  the  fustian,  for  Schoolmaster 
Murdoch  had  made  him  no  mean  critical  vivisectionist. 
Song  and  sorrow  were  tenants  of  his  heart  in  the 
economic  tragedy  of  the  farm  at  Mount  Oliphant,  but 
the  rack-renting  factor  thereof  wrought  better  than  he 
knew,  for  out  of  his  persecution  and  extortion  sprang 
the  poet's  never-to-be  suppressed  sympathy  for  the 
House  of  Have-Not  as  against  the  House  of  Have,  the 
first  utterance  of  which  we  find  in  the  "Twa  Dogs," 
who  are  very  dog  of  dog  and  yet  searchers  of  the 
secrets  of  man's  miseries  high  and  low.  After  Mount 
Oliphant,  Lochlea.    Another  poor  farm  ;  but  if  Lochlea 

40 


was  unprofitable  it  was  picturesque  and  Burns  could 
steep  his  soul  in  scenery.  He  was  now  sixteen,  he  had 
been  to  dancing  school  and  he  was  in  l(Tve — and  never 
after  out  of  it.  Poor  he  was,  yet  kinoes  might  have 
envied  him  the  stuff  of  poetry  and  youth  that  was 
working-  in  him,  as,  certainly,  he  never  envied  kings. 
After  Lochlea.  where  the  poet's  father  died,  leaving  so 
little  that  Burns  and  his  brother  had  to  claim  their 
wages  to  get  something  to  start  life  upon  anew,  after 
Burns'  flax-weaving  factor}^  had  burned  to  a  Bacchic 
accompaniment,  came  the  farm  at  Mossgiel.  But  Burns 
had  studied  life,  as  youth  will,  at  Irvine  and  Kirkos- 
wald ;  he  had  met  with  smugglers  and  sailors  and 
roysterers;  he  had  found  the  good  fellows  who  are  so 
bad  for  good  fellows ;  drink  and  the  doxies  fascinated 
him,  for  his  was  the  temperament  that  finds  generous 
pleasure  resistless.    He  was  yet  to  find  that 

Pleasures    are    like    poppies    spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  the  bloom  is  shed; 
Or  like  the  snow  fa's  in  the  river — 
A  moment  white  then  melts  forever. 

Much  that  was  bad  had  Burns  learned  by  this 
time,  but  one  supreme  good  thing  he  learned  ;  the  good- 
ness of  so-called  bad  people ;  and  the  meanness  or  bad- 
ness of  self-styled  good  people  came  to  him  shortly 
after,  to  the  dear  delight  of  all  the  world  and  the  more 
perfect  confusion  of  Hypocrisy,  for  ever  and  ever, 
amen.  It  was  at  Kirkoswald  he  was  refused  by  Mary 
Morison,  who  thought  herself  too  good  for  him — and 
she  but  a  serving  girl.  This  was  not  an  incident  calcu- 
lated to  sweeten  the  poet's  disposition,  but  long  after, 
remembering,  he  forgave  her  and  avenged  himself 
nobly  in  a  song  in  which  her  name  is  still  sweet  in  the 
mouths  of  men.  Mossgiel  yielded  two  bad  crops,  but 
at  Mossgiel  Burns  began  to  write,  and  the  poetry  crop 
was  goldenly  rich  and  the  landlord  could  take  no  toll 
of  that  in  unearned  increment.  In  this  time,  sore  beset 
with   trial,   harassed  by  apparent   failure,  the  plowman 

41 


gave  us  "Halloween,"  "To  a  Mouse,"  "The  Cotter's 
Saturday    Night,"    "The   Address   to   the   De'il,"    "The 
Jolly  Beggars,"  "The  Farmer's  Salutation."  "The  Twa 
Dogs,"  "The  Death  of  Dr.  Hornbook,"  "The  Mountain 
Daisy."    'What  a  sweep,  what  a  reach,  what  a  revel  of 
perception,  of  wit,  of  tenderness,  of  humor,  of  kindness, 
of  satire  and  grotesquerie !    This  alone  would  have  set 
up  an  ordinary  poet  in  immortality.    And  Burns  knew 
he  was  a  poet  by  this  time,  and  felt  the  spirit  of  con- 
secration upon  him;  he  made  now  his  high  resolve  to 
do  something  for  "puir  auld  Scotland"— "to  sing  a  song 
at  least."    These  poems  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  over 
the  countryside,  and  never  before  was  such  verse  so 
circulated    since    certain   "sugar'd    sonnets"   of    Shake- 
speare's among  his  friends.     They  were  composed  at 
the  plow,  and  then,  after  the  "countra   wark,"  were 
written  out,  on  a  plain  deal  table,  in  an  ill  lighted  garret 
— an   humble   workshop  to   which    to-day   the   world 
repairs  as  to  one  of  humanity's  holy  places.     And  all 
the  better  was  this  flash  of  singing  for  that  through  the 
meditations  at  the  plow  there  flitted  the  face  and  form 
and  echoes  of  the  voice  of  Jean  Armour. 

Was  ever  true  poetry  written  without  a  woman  as 
part,  if  not  all,  the  inspiration?  I  believe  not.  The 
great  work  of  the  world,  in  all  lines,  is  usually  done 
for,  and  to,  an  audience  of  one — a  woman,  though  not 
necessarily  throughout  each  work  the  same  woman.  A 
curious  story  that  of  Jean  Armour,  and  in  it  Burns 
does  not  always  figure  well;  he  wrote  some  things 
about  her  that  are  infamous,  though  not  more  infamous 
than  things  he  wrote  later  about  Mrs.  Riddle,  whom  he 
had  offended.  But  she  stung  him  into  song.  She  and 
her  father's  treatment  of  him  contributed  to  the  senti- 
ment of  the  "Mouse"  and  the  "Daisy"  a  finer  strain  of 
wistfulness  and  gave  to  the  satires  an  added  biting 
power.  The  afifair  between  Jean  and  Rob  became  a 
scandal;  it  broke  into  the  kirk;  it  helped  Burns  to 
espouse  the  liberal  cause  the  more  heartily  in  the  war 


42 


between  the  New-Light  and  Auld- Light  clerg>i  A 
sordid  enough  story  we  should  call  it  now,  but  it  was 
not  such  then  and  there,  when  and  where  people  were 
much  nearer  the  earth  than  we,  though  no  less  earthy, 
Jean  was  not  to  blame,  or  if  she  was.  Burns  forgave 
her  afterwards  and  gave  up  what  must  have  been  a  fas- 
cinating dream  to  him — marriage  with  the  clever  and 
affectionate  Clarinda,  Mrs.  McLehose,  when  she  should 
have  secured  a  divorce — and  "made  a  decent  woman 
of  her,"  in  a  re-birth  of  affection. 

Passionately  Burns  threw  himself  into  the  battle 
for  the  New-Lights.  They  represented  liberality.  They 
were  not  strict  constructionists  of  the  Mosaic  law. 
They  looked  leniently  upon  life.  They  did  not  frown  at 
fun.  They  were  in  modified  revolt  against  that  terrible 
Calvinism,  which  could  never  have  been  bearable  in 
Scotland,  save  for  whiskey.  The  iron  theocracy  was 
mitigated  only  by  intoxication.  The  Auld-Lights 
brought  Burns'  friend  Gavin  Hamilton  to  book  for 
some  breach  of  discipline ;  there  was  a  trial ;  Hamilton 
came  off  triumphant  and  Burns  burst  forth  in  satire — 
"Holy  Willie's  Prayer,"  "The  Twa  Herds,"  "The  Holy 
Fair,"  "The  Address  to  the  Unco  Guid."  And  satire 
never  burned  deeper — not  even  the  satire  of  Voltaire. 
Hyprocisy  has  been  the  target  of  almost  all  of  the  great 
poets  at  one  time  or  another,  but  Burns  has  given  us  the 
incarnation  of  Hypocrisy  perfectly  and  completely  scari- 
fied for  all  time. 

Here  were  sweet  and  bitter  from  the  same  won- 
drous well  of  genius.  How  may  one  do  more  than 
merely  allude  to  the  sweetness,  the  humanity,  the  rich, 
broad  humor,  the  keen  clear  observation,  the  richness 
and  yet  succinctness,  the  kindness  even  to  dumb 
animals,  the  good  word  even  for  the  De'il,  the  philos- 
ophy, the  grotesquerie  of  the  poems  first  named.  It 
cannot  be  told  save  in  quotation  and  to  tell  a  tithe  of  it 
one  would  have  to  quote  all  night. 

43 


"The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  is  the  wide  world 
id}'!  of  home — the  sanest  poem  of  all  poems  ever  writ, 
for  Burns  poured  into  it  all  the  blessed  memory  of  his 
own  home.  It  is  a  picture  of  poverty,  but  oh,  what  a 
richness  there  beyond  all  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind. 
It  is  the  very  ideal  of  home,  the  English  word  for  which 
the  other  languages  have  no  exact  equivalent.  "Hallo- 
ween" is  a  poem  that  is  steeped  in  life  at  play  over  the 
mystery  of  love.  Its  humor  is  such  that  you  cut  it  and 
it  bleeds  laughter  exactly  like  that  which  rings  in  ears 
of  memory  from  our  own  hay-rides  and  husking  bees 
of  the  years  which  the  locust  hath  eaten. 

"The  Mouse,"  the  "Daisy,"  later  the  Hare,  auld 
Mailie,  the  pet  yowe,  the  mare,  the  birds,  the  cattle, 
even  the  foxes  in  winter — truly,  as  one  has  said,  here 
Burns  is  not  second  to  him  of  Assisi  in  love  for  his  little 
l^rothers,  the  beasts  and  plants,  the  very  humblest  of 
God's  creatures.  And  the  lesson  he  learned  from  a 
louse  on  a  lady's  bonnet  is  more  worth  to  the  world,  I 
do  believe,  than  the  one  Newton  drew,  of  the  ache  of 
sphere  for  sphere,  from  the  impact  of  an  apple  on  his 
nose.  Read  "The  Jolly  Beggars"  to-day  and  then  turn 
to  our  modem  realists — Gorki  for  example.  The  one  is 
human,  the  other  diabolic.  The  Beggars  are  all  poets 
at  least,  wicked  though  they  be.  They  have  hearts. 
They  have  laughter  of  this  world,  not  like  that  of  dead 
men  in  hell.  They  are  lovable,  not  horrible.  And  that 
poem  is  palpitant  with  dramatic  power.  I  am  not  sure 
that  "The  Twa  Dags"  are  not  vastly  more  doggy  than 
Jack  London's.  They  are  as  much  true  beasts  as  those 
in  Kipling's  jungle.  They  talk  good  sense,  good  econ- 
omics, and,  in  a  sense,  good  will,  for  the  whole  dialogue 
shows  us  that  the  social  system  does  not  make  for 
happiness  anywhere.  And  their  views  are  an  unsur- 
passed commentary  upon  the  land  question.  Upon  the 
whole  the  debate  is  "a  draw,"  with  the  verdict  in  favor 
of  what  a  man  is.  not  what  he  has.  Rich  man  not  less 
than  poor  man  is  caught  and  ground  and  soul-spoiled 

44 


and  soiled  in  the  gin  of  a  system  based  upon  one  man's 
toll  upon  the  labor  of  another. 

Having  scalded  his  enemies  in  vitriol,  they  pilloried 
him  in  the  kirk,  enforcing  a  public  penance  upon  him 
and  Jean,  slie  in  the  role  of  Hester  Prynne  of  the 
"Scarlet  Letter;"  the  girl's  father  sets  the  law  upon 
him  and  he  is  in  hiding  when  the  Kilmarnock  edition 
of  his  poems  appears.  A  copy  of  the  volume  is  worth 
its  weight  in  gold  to-day.  And  it  was  printed  to  raise 
nine  pounds  sterling  to  enable  the  poet  to  get  away  to 
Jamaica.  Off  to  the  Indies  he  had  been,  too,  but  for  a 
letter  from  Dr.  Blacklock  of  Edinburgh.  His  passage 
was  paid.  And  the  urge  was  on  him  jjecause  of  the 
death  of  a  nev/  love — Highland  Mary.  He  had  clean 
forgot  his  Jean,  or  remembered  her  only  with  Ijitter- 
ness.  Though  he  married  Jean  later,  he  never  forgot 
]^.lary  Campbell  and  years  after  he  voiced  his  memory 
in  two  songs  that  express  for  all  men  all  lost  loves  for 
all  times — the  unapproachable  ballad  of  dear  dead 
woman. 

Through  Dr.  Blacklock  Burns  went  to  Edinburgh. 
He  was  the  lion,  and  at  first  he  liked  the  Honing,  but 
in  a  little  time  he  began  to  eat  his  own  heart,  which  is 
profitable  to  a  poet,  but  not  pleasing  to  the  man.  He 
was  well  received  by  Dugald  Stewart,  Lord  Monboddo, 
Hugh  Blair — lights  of  the  Northern  Athens,  but  all 
echoes,  reflections  rather,  of  greater  men  in  London. 
Though  they  did  not  know  it.  Burns  o'ertopped  them 
all.  One  little,  unnoticed  boy  met  him,  and  that  boy 
was  destined  to  claim  almost  equal  love  and  admiration 
with  him  from  Scotland  and  the  world.  The  boy  was 
Walter  Scott.  But  Burns  felt  the  patronage  of  the 
big  men  of  "Auld  Reekie."  He  carried  himself  well, 
but  he  was  not  deceived  as  to  his  status  and  so  he 
looked  up  his  huml)le  friends.  In  the  taverns  and  in 
the  Masonic  lodge,  breeding  place  of  liberal  thought,  he 
was  the  leader.  There  were  wit  and  wisdom  and 
whiskey,  and — women  of  course.    Burns  took  his  fling 

45 


at  all  things  Tory,  in  Church  as  well  as  State.  And 
feeling  his  own  worth,  he  could  even  be  jealous-angry 
at  Glencairn,  to  whom  he  has  left  such  a  noble  tribute 
of  friendship,  because  that  noble  paid  attention,  in  his 
presence,  to  some  dunder-pate.  There  was  need  of 
money.  There  was  talk  of  a  new  edition  of  the  poems. 
Burns  applied  for  a  place  in  the  Excise.  In  April,  1787, 
came  the  second  edition  of  the  poems,  but  the  pub- 
lisher, Creech,  was  poor  pay.  Back  to  Mossgiel  by  way 
of  the  Border;  and  that  excursion  did  him  little  good 
for  it  was  well  washed  with  liquor  most  of  the  way, 
and  so,  later,  with  his  trip  to  the  Highlands  where  he 
refreshed  all  his  Jacobic  traditions  and  gave  them 
expression  most  inopportunely  for  a  man  looking  for  a 
place  under  the  Hanoverians.  But  through  it  all  he 
was  brooding  divine  poesy. 

Back  to  Edinburgh  in  the  winter  of  1787 — and  now 
neglected.  More  embittered  than  ever,  though  he  got 
a  settlement  from  Creech,  he  sent  £180  to  Gilbert, 
married  Jean,  boasted  blithely,  "I  hae  a  wife  o'  my  ain," 
and  rented  Ellisland,  near  Dumfries.  Finally  came  the 
place  in  the  Excise,  at  £50  a  year.  'Tis  good  to  know 
he  was  a  poor  Exciseman,  that  he  passed  the  hint  to 
many  a  dealer  to  have  the  stuff  out  of  the  way  by  the 
time  he  and  the  inspector  came  around.  Only  the  "wife 
and  weans"  induced  him  to  hold  the  job.  He  had  to 
watch  the  farm  and  ride  a  wide  circuit,  and  the  farm — 
the  farm  did  not  pay.  Burns,  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  worked  for  the  landlord. 

And  all  this  time  he  was  pouring  forth  a  stream  of 
song  sufficient  to  drown  a  world  in  loveliness.  He  did 
it  for  love  of  love  and  Scotland.  He  would  take  no 
pay  lor  the  work.  At  Ellisland  he  wrote  "Tarn 
O'Shanter"  in  an  ecstacy  described  by  his  wife — 
an  ecstacy  that  continues  to  be  catching  l'^5  years  after. 
The  ride  is  the  immortal  ride  of  all  rides.  This  is  the 
high  water  mark  of  the  Burns  genius.  It  is  swift  and 
direct  as  an  arrow.  It  is  the  climax  of  kindly  caricature. 

46 


It  is  fun  as  sweet  as  it  is  broad.  It  is  a  jijreat  moral 
lesson,  too,  and  driven  home  with  a  laughter  more  lov- 
ing than  that  of  Rabelais.  Here  is  the  best  and  the 
worst  of  drinking.  The  eldritch  comic  in  this  perfor- 
mance is  unmatched  in  all  literature.  It  is  a  great  poem 
in  tliis,  that  it  promotes  both  toping  and  temperance. 
You  can't  properly  read  it  and  explicate  its  moral 
against  drink  and  "cutty-sarks"  without  a  swig  or  two 
of  the  blend  of  old  Glenlivet  or  eke  of  Haig  and  TIaig. 

Ellisland  failing,  Burns  went  to  Dumfries  in  the 
Excise.  Life  was  gay — in  a  fashion — the  primrose  way 
was  a  way  of  withering  primroses.  Burns  was  exiled 
from  the  country,  from  nature.  He  was  no  townsman. 
He  had  a  sharp  tongue  and  he  said  things  he  shouldn't 
have  said,  at  the  taverns.  He  said  things  that  sounded 
like  treason  to  the  loyal  natives.  He  responded  to  a 
toast  to  Pitt  with  one  "to  George  Washington,  a  better 
man."  He  sent  to  the  library  a  copy  of  DeLolme's 
"British  Construction"  with  a  suggestion  that  it  be  "taken 
as  a  creed  of  British  liberty — until  we  find  a  better."  He 
wrote  an  ode  in  honor  of  Washington's  birthday  and, 
in  "The  Tree  of  Liberty"  he  approved  strongly  the 
guillotining  Louis  XVI.  Burns  was  a  Jacobite  by 
romantic  tradition,  but  he  was  a  Republican  by  his 
reason.  He  thought  he  was  a  Republican  at  least,  but 
what  he  really  was,  was  democrat — a  small  d  demo- 
crat. 

Alexander  Smith,  an  earlier  Stevenson,  says  Burns 
was  Jacobite  from  sentiment,  radical  from  discontent. 
This  is  utterly  to  misread  the  man  and  the  poet.  He 
was  Jacobite  because  he  loved  the  lost  cause,  because 
the  Stuarts  were  unfortunate,  and  misfortune  never 
appealed  to  him  in  vain.  But  he  was  not  discontented 
when  he  wrote  the  lines  to  the  Mouse  or  those  to  the 
Daisy  or  to  Auld  Mailie  or  Maggie,  or  the  Hare.  All 
these  poems  breathe  sympathy  for  every  living  thing. 
Every  poem  that  Burns  has  written  celebrates  the  com- 
mon people  and  the  common  virtues;  even  if  he  praises 

47 


the  nobility  or  gentry  it  is  for  that  they  share  the 
common  virtues  with  the  honest  poor.  The  democratic 
inspiration  of  Burns  is  not  his  discontent.  Indeed  he 
never  was  discontented  in  the  sense  that  he  was  a 
malcontent.  He  did  not  hate  the  superior  classes.  He 
hated  their  vices  and  their  assumptions.  He  did  not 
see  wherein  they  were  superior.  He  did  not  see  that 
they  worked.  They  looked  like  parasites  to  him.  For 
money  he  did  not  care  himself,  but  only  for  love  and 
light  and  friendship  and  honesty  and  song — evermore 
song.  And  such  songs  as  he  produced  in  the  midst  of 
worry,  poverty,  illness,  many  duties,  no  one  ever  pro- 
duced before.  He  reeled  them  off  for  Johnson  and  for 
Thomson  without  asking  a  penny.  It  was  a  labor  of 
love,  it  was  done  for  Scotland.  He  was  not  original, 
some  say.  Granted ;  he  took  his  own  where  he  found  it,  but 
nothing  he  borrowed  he  did  not  improve,  nothing  he 
touched  he  did  not  adorn.  Burns  was  a  nature  poet, 
without  any  "return"  from  the  worship  of  false  gods. 
He  was  before  Wordsworth.  Burns  was  the  first  voice 
in  the  world,  almost,  since  Villon,  who  gave  poetic 
speech  to  the  thoughts  of  the  common  man,  even  of  the 
outcast.  Burns'  "nature"  was  a  natural  nature,  not  the 
pasteboard  pinchback  nature  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 
Burns  was  no  sheer  sentimentalist.  His  nature  work 
is  never  overdone.  "The  pathetic  fallacy"  had  no  hold 
upon  him.  Satirist  that  he  was,  like  Voltaire,  he  had 
a  vast  common  sense.  His  epistle  to  a  young  friend,  and 
the  one  to  Davie,  are  examples  of  this,  and  in  the  same 
category  comes  many  another  poem  and  song.  Burns' 
judgments,  upon  himself  and  others,  are  always  fair, 
when  satire  is  not  his  aim,  and  his  didactic  verse  is 
more  detailed  in  its  observation,  more  widely  diffused 
in  its  applicability,  and  more  deeply  psychological  than 
Polonius'  advice  to  Laertes — for  old  Polonius  is  a  bore, 
and  Burns'  preachments  have  always  the  salt  of  humor. 

A  sensible  man  and  a  democrat?  "For  a'  that,"  is 
the  answer,    "The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp,"   A 

48 


lovinj^  man —  a  singer  of  the  love  of  comrades  in  which 
he  antedated  our  own  Whitman. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms 
Whose  heart  the  tide  o'  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  beinj?  on  the  terms 

"Each  aid  the  others" 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms 

My  friends,  my  brothers. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran 
When  first  the  human  race  began 
The  social,  friendly,  honest  man 

What  e'er  he  be; 
'Tis  he  fulfills  great  nature's  plan, 

And  none  but  he. 


x*\t  Dumfries  came  the  end,  July  21st,  1796.  He 
died  pestered  by  collectors,  begging  a  few  pounds  for 
which  he  promised  the  worth  in  songs.  He  died  worn 
out  by  living.  He  had  sung  Scotland  back  to  some- 
thing like  nationhood.  He  had  sung  the  glories  of 
honest  manhood,  as  opposed  to  hereditary  distinction. 
He  had  proclaimed  the  divinity  of  the  common  man 
and  had  given  the  world  its  most  effective  armory 
against  bigotry,  cant,  hyprocisy  and  class  separatism. 
He  gave  shibboleths  to  patriotic  democracy  in  all  lands. 
He  left  us  love  songs  that  ease  the  world's  heartache, 
little  simplicities  and  particularities  and  personalities 
of  utterance  that  are  universal  in  their  scope  and  feel- 
ing. "John  Anderson,  My  Jo,"  "Afton  Water,"  "My 
Love  is  Like  a  Red  Red  Rose,"  "My  Dearie."  He  has 
sung  friendship  even  as  he  has  sung  love,  matchlessly, 
to  Glencairn,  to  Simpson,  to  Lapraik,  to  James  Smith : 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  and  moon, 
And  every  star  that  blinks  aboon, 
Ye've  cost  me  twenty  pair  of  shoon 
Just  gaun  to  see  you, 
And  every  other  pair  that's  done, 
Mair  ta'en  Fm  wi  you. 

49 


Burns  never  attacked  religion,  nor  worth  of  any 

kind.      Indeed    he    had    a    passion    for    honesty.      He 

beHeved  in  honesty  in  poetry.    That  is  why,  I  believe, 

he  has  never  written  anything  in  literary  English  that 

compares  with  the  things  he  has  done  in  the  Scotch 

dialect. 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 

That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire, 

Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  and  mire, 

At  plough  or  cart, 

My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire. 

May  touch  the  heart. 

His  philosophy:     It  is  faith  in  good  works. 

If  happiness  have  not  her  seat 
And  center  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise  or  rich  or  great, 
We  never  can  be  blest. 

And  charity  for  all,  even  for  the  Devil!  What  a 
stroke  of  sublime  pantheism  is  his  declaration  that  the 
light  that  leads  astray  is  light  from  heaven. 

The  poetry  of  Burns  has  become  the  thought-stuff 
of  the  world,  wherever  men  care  for  the  primal  virtues, 
wherever  they  strive  for  liberty.  His  countrymen  have 
carried  his  gospel  abroad,  wide  as  the  waters  be ;  and 
around  the  world,  the  doctrine  of  individual  worth  has 
made  and  is  making  headway;  human  rights  rather 
than  rank  rights,  or  money  rights  are  coming  into  wider 
and  wider  supremacy,  and,  insomuch  as  Robert  Burns 
had  such  tremendous  share  in  this  it  demonstrates  the 
truth  of  Shelley's  saying  that  "poets  are  the  unacknow- 
ledged legislators  of  the  world." 


50 


r\N  THE  Burns  Night  of  1911,  the  Club  recorded  tribute  to 
^^^  the  memory  of  a  late  member,  Joseph  A.  Graham,  who 
had  been  one  of  the  zealous,  steadfast  promoters  of  the  Burns 
Cottage  at  the  World's  Fair: 

"He  was  of  that  nature  to  which  the  gospel  of  Burns 
appealed  strongly.  He  viewed  men  with  the  tolerance  bred 
of  a  newspaper  life.  He  loved  dogs.  We,  of  the  Burns  Club, 
recall  fondly  the  charming  personality  of  our  late  associate 
and  we  voice  our  tribute  to  his  memory,  borrowing  the  lines: 

"Heav'n  rest  his  saul,  whare'er  he  be! 
Is  the  wish  o'  many  mae  than  me; 
He  had  twa  faults,  or  may  be  three, 

Yet  what  remead? 
Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we 

Tam  Samson's  dead." 


AFTER  the  dinner  of  1911,  Professor  J.  L.  Lowes,  of  the 
'^*-  chair  of  English  at  Washington  University,  took  the 
Burns  Club  to  an  unusual  viewpoint  of  the  poet's  genius.  He 
led  his  hearers  back  to  the  English  poets  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  He  described  and  illustrated  the  repressed,  pent-up, 
tamed  spirit  of  that  period  until  its  very  smoldering  presence 
seemed  to  rill  the  chamber.  And  then  with  sudden  transition, 
he  caused  to  burst  forth,  without  bounds,  the  soulful  flame  of 
Burns. 

The  honor  guest  of  the  Club  upon  this  Burns  Night  was 
David  Franklin  Houston,  chancellor  of  Washington  Univer- 
sity, later  Secretary  of  Agriculture  in  the  Cabinet  of  President 
Woodrow  Wilson. 


52 


BURNS  AND   ENGLISH   POETRY 

By  John  Livingston  Lowes, 
Professor  of  English,  Washington  University 

January  28.   1911 

NO  ONE  but  a  Scotchman  born  has  any  right  to 
speak  of  Burns  before  a  Burns  Club,  and  I,  alas! 
am  not  a  Scotchman  born.  It  is  true  that  one  of  my 
remote  grandmothers  was  named  Janet  Adair,  and  that 
an  ancestor  of  my  own  name  lies  buried,  for  some  inscrut- 
able reason,  in  Holyrood  Chapel.  But  another  grand- 
mother bore  the  name  of  Anne  West,  and  still  another 
was  christened  in  unspellable  Holland  Dutch,  so  that  I 
fear  there  is  a  blending  of  blood  which  excludes  me  from 
the  magic  circle  of  those  who  call  Burns  countryman. 
Moreover,  Burns  is  like  Shakespeare,  in  that  everything 
about  him  has  been  already  said,  and  most  of  it  said  finally. 
To  attempt  to  add  a  note  to  the  chorus  of  praise  with 
which  for  a  century  he  has  been  greeted  would  be  "to 
paint  the  lily,  and  add  another  hue  imto  the  rainbow."  My 
only  salvation  (and  that  for  the  time  being  is  yours,  too) 
lies  in  approaching  Burns  from  outside;  and  what  I  wish, 
with  your  permission,  to  do  very  briefly  this  evening,  is  to 
consider  something  of  what  Burns  brought  into  the  great 
current  of  English  poetry. 

Burns  appeared  at  the  beginning  of  a  reaction  against 
a  reaction.  The  century  to  whose  close  he  belonged  had 
swung  far  enough  away  from  the  traits  and  qualities 
which  had  characterized  the  great  age  that  had  preceded 
it.  Few  periods  have  been  so  keenly  alive,  so  virile  and 
red-blooded,  so  brilliantly  varied  in  their  interests  and 
activities  as  that  of  Elizabeth.  There  was  a  zest  in  living 
that  expressed  itself  in  a  superb  spontaneity,  a  careless 
audacity,  an  unconsidered  lavishness,  both  in  life  and  in 

This  address  was  delivered  extempore,  and,  as  it  stands,  has  been 
dictated  from  scanty  notes.  It  is  printed  iiere,  not  because  the  writer  deems 
it  in  form  or  content  worthy  of  such  permanence — for  he  does  not;  but 
because  the  Burns  Club  has  asked  that  it  be  done. — J.   L.  L. 

53 


letters,  which  it  would  be  hard  to  parallel  elsewhere.  There 
was  the  stir  of  great  movements  in  the  air.  The  influence 
of  the  Renaissance,  sweeping  up  through  France  and 
Spain  from  Italy— "that  great  limbec  of  working  brains," 
as  old  James  Howell  afterwards  called  it — had  reached 
England.  The  voyages  to  the  New  World  and  the  daring 
exploits  of  men  who  (in  the  phrase  which  embodies  the 
very  spirit  of  the  Elizabethan  voyagers)  "made  a  wild 
dedication  of  themselves.  To  unpath^d  waters,  undream'd 
shores"— all  this  had  powerfully  stimulated  men's  imag- 
ination. The  menace  of  Spain  was  making  possible  such 
patriotism  as  burns  in  old  Gaunt's  dying  words : 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world. 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea     .     .     . 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England     .     .     . 

This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land       .     .     . 

England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea. 

In  a  word,  men  were  living  deeply,  broadly,  keenly, 
and  the  literature  reflected  that  depth  and  breadth  and 
vividness.  It  reflected  it  in  the  richness  and  searching 
veracity  with  which  almost  every  phase  of  human  passion 
was  depicted ;  it  reflected  it  in  the  unfettered  freedom  of 
form  that  characterized  the  literature  from  the  briefest 
lyric  to  a  tragedy  like  Lear;  and  it  was  couched  in  a 
diction  which  was  often  like  the  large  utterance  of  the 
early  gods. 

Then  gradually  the  pendulum  began  to  swing  the 
other  way.  This  is  no  place  to  enter  into  the  reasons  for 
the  change.  The  change  came,  and  it  is  what  it  carried 
with  it  that  concerns  us  here.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who 
decry  the  eighteenth  century.  That  much  maligned  period 
had  its  own  contribution  to  make,  and  it  made  it  in  its  own 
dispassionate  and  businesslike  way.  But  its  needle  pointed 
to  the  other  pole,  and  its  ideals  were  in  large  degree 
opposed  to  those  of  the  spacious  days  that  had  preceded  it. 
And  nowhere  was  this  more  strikingly  true  than  in  its 
poetry.  If,  then,  you  will  permit  me  to  be  concrete,  I 
should  like  to  suggest  a  few  things  that  may  help  to  set 
in  clearer  light  the  real  significance  of  Robert  Burns. 

54 


Ill  the  first  place,  one  fundamental  article  of  the 
eig:hteenth  century  poetical  code  was  the  repression  of 
passion.  Here,  for  example,  are  a  few  passages  taken 
wholly  at  random  from  the  poets  of  the  period,  which  will 
illustrate  what  I  mean  : 

Let  all  be  hushed,  each  softest  motion  cease, 
Be  every  loud  tumultous  thought  at  peace. 

That  happens  to  be  from  Cong^reve's  lines.  On  Miss 
Arabella  Hunt  Singing.    Again,  in  Parnell : 

When  thus  she  spake — Go  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still. 

Doctor  Johnson,  too,  strikes  the  same  note : 

Pour  forth  thy  fervors  for  a  healthful  mind, 
Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resigned. 

Not  Otherwise  writes  Whitehead,  in  a  poem  called 
(of  all  things!)  The  Enthusiast: 

The  tyrant  passions  all  subside, 
Fear,  anger,   pity,   shame  and   pride 
No  more  my  bosom  move. 

I  shall  add  without  comment  a  few  more  examples: 

At  helm  I  make  my  reason  sit. 

My  crew  of  passions  all  submit   (Green); 

Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 

My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid    (Dyer); 

And  through  the  mists  of  passion  and  of  sense 
To  hold  his  course  unfaltering  (Akenside); 

the  virtuous  man 

Who  keeps  his  tempered  mind  serene  and  pure. 
And  every  jarring  passion  aptly  harmonized 

(Thompson). 

These  are  perfectly  typical  examples  of  the  attitude 
of  the  times.  And  it  is,  of,  course,  a  sound  enough  atti- 
tude ethically,  too.    But  that  is  not  the  point.    Tlie  point 

55 


is  simplv  this.  Suppose  Lear  and  Hamlet  and  Othello  and 
Macbeth,  suppose  Oedipus  and  Tristram  and  Launcelot 
and  Faust  had  possessed  "obedient  passions  and  will 
resigned!"  The  question  answers  itself.  No!  with  all 
its  praiseworthy  efforts  to  see  things  as  they  are,  the 
eighteenth  century  shut  its  eyes  to  one  of  the  most  funda- 
mental facts  of  all — to  those  deep-rooted  and  elemental 
impulses  whose  clash  and  often  tragic  struggle  purge  and 
uplift  through  pity  and  fear.  Clever  and  often  masterly 
as  its  craftmanship  was ;  clear-eyed  and  shrewd  and  sane 
as  many  of  its  judgments  were,  the  period  hermetically 
sealed  itself  against  the  great  winds  of  the  spirit. 

But  that  was  not  all.  Not  only  was  the  range  of 
human  interest  notably  restricted,  but  the  splendid  free- 
dom of  poetic  form  that  had  characterized  the  earlier  days 
was  gone  as  well.  Upon  that  superb  creature,  the  spirit 
of  English  poetry,  there  was  imposed  the  strait-jacket  of 
what  was  virtually  a  single  meter ;  the  thing  was  cabined, 
cribbed,  confined,  bound  in,  by  the  limits  of  the  decasyll- 
abic couplet.  Now  one  may  grant  at  once  that  to  certain 
purposes  no  instrument  could  be  more  exquisitely  adapted 
than  the  heroic  couplet.  But,  as  in  so  many  instances,  the 
difficulty  lay  not  in  the  use.  but  in  the  abuse  of  the 
medium  ;  and  a  measure  which  fits  an  epigram  like  a  glove 
is  not  for  that  reason  necessarily  adapted  to  voice  the 
poignant  outcry  of  a  tortured  soul.  But,  after  all,  precisely 
one  trouble  with  the  eighteenth  century  was  the  fact  that 
it  didn't  greatly  vex  its  soul;  and  one  result  of  its  coolly 
rationalistic  attitude  toward  life,  coupled  with  the  influ- 
ence of  the  amazing  craftsmanship  of  Pope,  was  a  devas- 
tating monotony  of  heroic  couplets,  which  spread  over 
English  poetry  like  a  flood,  with  only  the  tip  of  an  occas- 
ional Ararat  projecting  above  the  waves.  I  know  I  am 
painting  in  too  broad  lines,  in  too  high  lights,  but  this  is 
after  dinner,  and  1  am,  1  think,  telling  the  essential  truth. 

But  still  another  count  has  to  be  added  to  the  indict- 
ment. For  no  less  fatal  than  the  relentless  vogue  of  the 
couplet  was  the  prevalence  of  a  so-called  "poetic  diction." 

56 


The  age  revelled  in  conventional  stock  terms  for  thin^^s. 
To  call  a  spade  by  its  proper  name  was  like  presentinjj^ 
oneself  in  company  in  puris  naturalibus.  It  is  all  very  like 
Bottom  and  Snout  and  the  lion  in  the  Midsummer  Ni(;;ht's 
Dream.  "To  brinsf  in  a  lion,"  says  Bottom,  "To  bring  in 
— God  shield  us ! — a  lion  among  ladies  is  a  most  dreadful 
thing ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild  fowl  than  your 
lion  living."  "Therefore,"  says  Snout,  "another  prologue 
must  tell  that  he  is  not  a  lion."  And  so,  for  the  benefit  of 
artistic  sensibilities,  in  the  poetry  we  are  considering,  the 
lions  roar  as  gently  as  any  sucking  doves.  The 
wind  is  softened  to  "the  trembling  zephyr"  or  "the  frag- 
rant gale."  Shakespeare's  ''Cradle  of  the  rude  imperious 
surge"  becomes  "the  sprightly  flood,"  or  ''swelling  tide" ; 
a  boot  is  "the  shining  leather  that  encased  the  limb" ;  a 
pipe  is  "the  short  tube  that  fumes  beneath  the  nose." 
Does  one  make  coffee?  Then,  "From  silver  spouts  the 
grateful  liquors  glide,  And  China's  earth  receives  the 
smoking  tide."  Does  one  stab?  Why  then,  one  "with 
.steel  invades  the  life."  In  a  word,  the  poetry  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  was  doomed  to  go  in  periwig  and  small 
clothes ;  the  superb  forthrightness  and  directness  and 
poignancy  of  the  virile  speech  of  deep  feeling  or  compell- 
ing passion  was  to  it  an  unknown  tongue. 

And  in  upon  all  that  formalism  and  convention  and 
repression  came  Robert  Burns — "Neither  eighteenth  cen- 
tury nor  nineteenth  century"  (as  Arthur  Symons  put  it 
a  year  or  so  ago)  ;  ''neither  local  nor  temporary,  but  the 
very  Uame  of  man,  speaking  as  a  man  has  only  once  or 
twice  spoken  in  the  world."  And  now,  perhaps,  we  may 
see  more  clearly  some  elements  of  his  significance. 

"The  very  liame  of  man" — that  puts  the  essential 
thing,  I  think,  as  well,  perhaps,  as  words  after  all  can 
express  it.  For  what  one  thinks  of  first  in  Burns'  work 
is  its  throbbing,  pulsing  life,  which  fuses  at  white  heat 
whatever  inert  stuff  comes  into  his  alembic.  The  eighteenth 
century  was  interested,  in  its  cold  methodical  w-ay,  in 
abstract  truth.     Burns'  passion  for  reality,  for  the  trne 

57 


thing,  was  like  a  consuming  fire,  and  Holy  Willie's  Prayer, 
and  the  Address  to  the  Deil,  and  the  Address  to  the  Unco 
Giiid  in  their  trenchant  lines  strip  sham  and  hypocrisy 
stark  naked,  and  leave  them  shivering.  The  eighteenth 
century  had  its  theories,  pleasing  enough,  about  the  rights 
of  man.  Burns  did  what  Wordsworth  rightly  insisted  every 
true  poet  must  do — he  "carried  the  thing  alive  into  the 
heart  by  passion,"  and  "A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that" — and 
I  should  even  say  Tlie  Jolly  Beggars,  too, — is  worth  all 
the  volumes  of  abstract  theorizing  that  preceded  it.  The 
eighteenth  century  took  little  stock  in  nature.  That  line 
in  The  Rape  of  the  Lock — "Sol  through  white  curtains 
shot  a  timorous  ray" — has  always  seemed  to  me  rather 
engagingly  symbolic  of  the  whole  period ;  it  loved  to  look 
at  nature,  when  it  looked  at  all,  through  curtained  win- 
dows, and  the  couplet  was  quite  large  enough  for  what  it 
saw.  But  to  Burns  the  world  of  nature,  animate  and 
inanimate,  and  the  world  of  human  life  were  bone  of  one 
bone  and  flesh  of  one  flesh.  There  could  scarcely  be  two 
men  more  essentially  unlike  at  most  points  than  St.  Francis 
of  Assissi  and  Robert  Burns,  yet  at  one  point  there  is  an 
almost  startling  kinship  between  the  two.  Some  of  you 
will  recall  St.  Francis's  wonderful  Canticle  of  the  Sun : 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  God  with  all  his  creatures;  and 
especially  our  brother  the  sun,  who  brings  us  the  day,  and 
who  brings  us  the  light;  fair  is  he,  and  shining  with  a  very 
great  splendor:     Oh  Lord,  he  signifies  us  to  Thee. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  sister  the  moon,  and  for 
the  stars,  the  which  he  has  set  clear  and  lovely  in  heaven. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  brother  the  wind,  and  for 
air  and  clouds,  calms  and  all  weather,  by  the  which  thou 
upholdst  in  life  all  creatures. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  sister  water,  who  is  very 
serviceable  to  us,  and  humble,  and  precious,  and  clean. 

"Praised  be  my  Lord  for  our  brother  fire,  through  whom 
thou  givest  us  light  in  the  darkness;  and  he  is  bright,  and 
pleasant,  and  very  mighty  and  strong." 


58 


It  is  that  same  vivid  sense  of  the  brotherhood  of  all  things 
that  are,  that  is  Burns'  authentic  note : 

Wee,    sleekit,    cow'rin,    tim'rous    beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 
I  wad  be  lailh  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  prattle! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  an'  keen! 

The  eighteenth  century  was  little  disturbed  by  love. 
It  could  "die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain" — but  it  died  in  an 
epigram !  The  passion  that  surged  through  the  Eliza- 
bethan and  Jacobean  lyrics  and  plays  had  beat  itself  out ; 
in  Pope's  hands  even  the  tragic  agony  of  Heloise  and  Abe- 
lard  is  softened  into  a  mild  regret ;  the  theme  is  played  on 
muted  strings.  Nobody  sang  in  those  days  as  when,  in 
the  great  days  before,  "wild  music  burthened  every 
bough."  One  doesn't  sing  satire  and  epigram  and  critique. 
But  with  Burns  human  passion  came  again  to  its  own. 
For,  strange  as  it  is,  it  is  no  less  true,  that  it  isn't  what 
men  think,  but  what  they  feel  that  lasts.  What  Thales 
and  all  the  Seven  Sages  thought  out  "mit  Miihe  und  Not" 
is  as  obsolete  as  the  implements  forged  by  Tubal  Cain, 
while  Sapho's  handful  of  mutilated,  fragmentary  lines  that 
have  survived  are  contemporary  with  Shelley  and  with 
Poe.  And  in  Burns  this  same  elemental  human  note 
makes  itself  heard  again.  Imagine  Dryden  or  Pope  or 
Doctor  Johnson,  or  even  Goldsmith  or  Gray  or  Cowper 

writing : 

"O,  my  love's  like  a   red,   red   rose, 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June!" 

And  that  brings  us  to  another  thing. 

59 


New    wine    won't    go    into    old    bottles — and   here, 
emphatically,  was  new  wine.    What  was  to  happen  ?  Well, 
that  happened  which  has  happened  again  and  again.     It 
happened  when,  with  only  the  measured,  balanced  cad- 
ences of  classical  prosody  to  express  it,  there  came  into 
the  world  that  passionate  thing— for  that  certainly  is  what 
it  was — that  found  its  most  marvelous  expression  in  the 
close  of  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  letter  to  the  Romans. 
Could  that  find  room  in  the  stately,  serene  hexameters  of 
Virgil,  or  in  the  graceful  stanzas  of  the  Horatian  ode  ?    It 
couldn't,  and  it  didn't ;  it  beat  its  own  music  out,  and  we 
have,  as  the  result  of  it,  the  poignant,  plangent  measures 
of  the  Latin  hymns.     The  new  and  deeper  passion  had 
forged  for  itself  a  new  and  marvelous  measure,  that  has 
influenced  the  poets  ever  since.    Could  Beethoven's  stormy 
and  tragic  meaning  cramp  itself  within  the  conventional 
rondo  of  Hayden  or  even  Mozart  ?    Play  one  of  these,  and 
then  listen  to  the  scherzos — the  same  fundamental  form, 
but  qitam  mutatus  ab  illo!— the  scherzos  of  the  great 
symphonies,  with  their  rollicking  gayety,  grim  mystery, 
and  tragic  portent.     And  so,  when  Burns  appeared,  the 
day  of  the  heroic  couplet  was  done — done  because  the 
winged,  flame-like  thing  he  brought  could  not  be  caged 
within  it,  any  more  than  Lear's  ravings,  or  the  sea-music 
of  Pericles,  or  the  something  rich  and  strange  of  the 
Tempest  could  be  put  in  Shakespeare's  earlier  blank  verse. 
And  as  he  brought  freedom  of  rhythm  once  more,  so 
with  him  came  back  again  to  English  poetry  a  diction, 
fresh  and  masculine  and  vigorous.    "Paul's  words,"  said 
Luther,  "are  alive :  they  have  hands  and  feet ;  if  you  cut 
them  they  bleed."     And  Burns'  words  arc  no  less  alive, 
and  they  are  besides  racy  with  the  tang  of  the  soil.    They 
are  like  the  speech  that  Montaigne  loved :    "It  is  a  natural, 
simple    and    unafifected    speech    that     I    love,"    wrote 
Montaigne,  "so  written  as  it  is  spoken,  and  such  upon  the 
paper  as  it  is  in  the  mouth,  a  pithie,  sinnowie,  full,  strong, 
compendious    and    material    speech."      And    with    Tarn 

60 


O'Shaiitcr,  far  more  than  with  Wordsworth's  amiable 
experiments,  the  reign  of  the  old  poetic  diction  was  at 
an  end. 

"The  very  flame  of  man  speaking  as  a  man  has  only 
spoken  once  or  twice  in  the  world" — that  zvas  Robert 
Burns.  And  this  authentic  speech  of  his  proclaimed  for 
English  poetry  the  dawn  of  a  new  day. 


61 


TO  THE  BARD  OF  AULD 
LANG  SYNE 

By  James  Main  Dixon,  Litt.  D.,  F.  R.  S.  Edin. , 

Director  of  Oriental  Studies  and  Professor  of  Literature, 

University  of  Southern  California 

Read  at  the  meeting  of  the  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis,  on  the 
anniversary  of  the  poet's  birth,  January  25,  1913 

What  tuneful  bard  of  Auld  Lang  Syne 

Wi'  Robbie  can  compare, 
Who  sings  the  home  of  me  and  mine. 

The  bonnie  Banks  of  Ayr; 

The   daisy  with   its   crimson   tips 

That  nestles  'mid  the  dew; 
The  fragrant  rose  with  ruddy  lips, 

And  thorns  if  love's  untrue; 

The  laverock  springing  from  the  nest 

At  the  first  peep  of  day, 
To  wake  the  shepherd  from  his  rest 

And  singing  soar  away. 

I  stand  beside  the  reapers  strong 

Among  the   bearded   bear. 
I  hear  the  mavis'  mellow  song 

When  eventide  is  near. 

I  see  auld  ruined  castles  gray 

Nod  grimly  to  the  moon. 
And  Hornie  waiting  for  his  prey 

To  fricht  wi'  eldritch  croon; 

And  AUoway's  auld  haunted  kirk 

Among  the  sheeted  dead. 
Where  witches  foot  it  in  the  mirk 

By  supple  Nannie  led. 

The  auld  clay  biggin's  walls  appear; 

And  ben  the  hallan  there. 
From  a  hush'd  household  group  T  hear 

The  voice  of  evening  prayer. 

Hail  to  the  bard  who  sings  the  praise 
Of  Scots  who  fought  and  bled 

At  Stirling  Bridge  and  Loudon  Braes 
With  Wallace  at  their  head; 

62 


And  who  at  glorious  Bannockburn, 
With  Bruce  sae  bauld  and  slee, 

Made  Edward  like  a  coward  turn 
And  to  the  borders  flee. 

Rab's  lines  are  like  the  burning  gleed, 
They  warm  us,  make  us  wiser; 

But  may  we  better  reck  the  rede 
Than  ever  did  th'  adviser! 

From  his  wee  sleekit  mouse  I  take 
That  word  with  wisdom  fraught, 

The  best  constructed  plans  we  make 
Will  often  come  to  naught. 

From  him  I  get  that  noble  rule — 

The  man  of  upright  mind 
WHio  scorns  to  palter  and  to  snool 

Is  king  among  mankind. 


63 


T  IKE  unto  Isaiah,  Judge  Moses  N.  Sale  compared  Burns 
■'-'  when  the  Club  observed  the  151st  anniversary  of  the  birth 
of  the  poet.  He  found  in  Burns  the  gift  of  tongues  and  of 
prophesy  for  men  of  every  clime  and  all  times.  He  drew 
parallels  between  the  words  of  the  ancient  prophet  in  Israel 
and  those  of  him  who  "scotched"  the  Pharisees,  the  "unco 
guid"  of  a  later  generation.  He  rebuked  in  scathing  terms 
those  who  question  the  religious  nature  of  Burns  and  who 
see  in  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  and  other  Burns  poems 
of  like  nature  only  "recoil  from  excesses  of  the  flesh.''  The 
straight-from-the-shoulder  sentences  of  Judge  Sale  found 
quick-answering  echo  in  standing  vote  of  the  Club,  and  in  the 
first  suggestion  to  print  the  volume  of  Burns  Nights  in  St. 
Louis. 


64 


BURNS,  THE  PROPHET 

By  Moses   N.  Sale, 
Late  Judge  of  the  Circuit  Court  of  St.  Louis 

January  25,  1910 

MY  APOLOGY  is  clue  to  the  members  of  the  club  for 
readint;'  from  my  manuscript  on  this  occasion. 
I  might  tell  you,  and  you  would  doubtless  believe  me,  that 
the  duties  of  office  and  a  self-assumed  obligation  to  a  body 
of  young  men,  anxious  to  improve  themselves  as  lawyers, 
have  not  given  me  the  time  since  I  was  notified  by  our 
secretary,  of  the  part  assigned  to  me  on  this  occasion. 
These  reasons  would  form  a  durable  foundation  for  my 
apology,  and  they  certainly  bear  the  appearance  of  being 
solid.  They  seem  to  me  to  be  apparently  valid  excuses 
for  my  not  being  able  to  deliver  to  you  an  extemporaneous 
address,  conceived  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  inspired 
by  the  occasion  itself  after  days  of  deliberation.  These 
reasons,  however,  are  apparent  and  not  real.  Stage  fright, 
a  form  of  nervousness,  known  to  those  learned  in  medical 
jargon  as  "amnesic  aphasia" — the  chief  symptom  of  which 
is  the  inability  on  the  part  of  the  patient  to  call  to  mind 
the  exact  word  he  wants,  although  recognizing  it  and  able 
to  pronounce  it  when  found  or  when  suggested,  this 
is  the  real  reason  for  my  putting  on  paper  my  thoughts 
concerning  Scotland's  greatest  poet,  and  one  of  the 
world's  great  poets.  I  hope  you  will  detect,  concealed  in 
that  reason,  my  great  respect  for  the  members  of  the 
Burns  Club. 

Before  entering,  however,  on  the  subject  assigned  to 
me,  there  is  another  matter  which  has  long  lain  on  my 
mind,  and  which  has  troubled  me  no  little.  I  disavow 
sincerely  and  earnestly  any  desire  to  pose  as  a  reformer 
or  to  act  as  a  censor  in  matters  of  social  etiquette ;  yet  it 
strikes  me  that  on  occasions  of  this  kind,  chaos  is  sub- 
stituted for  cosmos.  Like  him  whose  birthday  we  cele- 
brate this  evening,  I  am  ordinarily  a  sociable  animal;  I 

65 


enjoy  the  good  things  of  life  that  so  sparingly  fall  to  my 
lot,  but  I  find  it  beyond  me  altogether  to  be  my  natural 
self,  I  find  it  impossible  to  be  sociable,  to  enjoy  myself  and 
to  contribute  my  share  to  the  enjoyment  of  others  when  I 
sit  down  to  a  table  laden  with  good  things  to  whet  and 
satisfy  the  appetite,  knowing  all  the  while  that  the  sword 
of  Damocles  hangs  over  my  head  ready  to  drop  at  the 
word  of  the  presiding  genius.  Foreknowledge  of  coming 
events  on  those  occasions  aggravates  every  symptom  of 
my  disease  ;  and  I  am,  therefore,  driven  to  the  necessity  of 
putting  my  words  on  paper  in  order  to  make  myself  intell- 
igible. If  I  permit  my  dirt-self  to  enjoy  the  eating  and 
drinking,  I  do  so  at  the  expense  of  my  psychic-self. 
I  always  envied  the  man,  who,  knowing  he  was  to  be  called 
upon  after  his  dinner  for  a  speech,  could  yet  enjoy  him- 
self as  fully  and  freely  as  if  nothing  direful  was  impend- 
ing. I  confess  that  on  these  occasions  my  bodily  and  my 
mental  self  get  into  a  fracas,  and  I  am  unable  to  extricate 
the  one  from  the  other  until  I  am  on  my  way  home, 
walking  in  the  cool  of  the  night  air,  when  my  mental-self 
reasserts  its  dominion,  and  I  recall  to  mind  the  splendid 
speech  I  had  intended  to  make,  but  forgot ;  and  then  I  see 
all  too  clearly,  what  a  glorious  opportunity  I  missed  of 
talking  myself  into  local  fame.  This  confession,  publicly 
made,  together  with  the  slight  pressure  of  official  work, 
and  my  profound  respect  for  the  Burns  Club,  are  my 
justification  for  reading  my  address. 

I  want  to  make  the  suggestion  now  to  members  of  the 
Burns  Club,  that  hereafter,  at  these  annual  commemora- 
tions, the  order  of  business  be  so  changed  as  to  make  it 
possible  for  the  speakers  to  enjoy  the  dinner  by  giving 
them  the  opportunity  of  emptying  themselves  of  their 
speeches,  so  as  to  make  room  for  the  dinner.  Speeches 
first,  dinner  next. 

May  I  not  modestly  ask,  "What  was  I  or  my  genera- 
tion that  I  should  get  sic  exaltation"  as  to  be  selected  by 
the  club  for  the  honor  of  speaking  to  you  of  Robert  Burns 
on  the  151st  anniversary  of  his  birth?     I  am  honored 

66 


beyond  my  meed.  I  have  frequently  spoken  in  terms  of 
profound  admiration  of  the  work  of  Burns  and  of  my  deep 
sympathy  with  his  short  and  wonderful  career.  I  have 
thus  spoken  in  the  presence  of  some  of  my  friends,  who 
were  so  fortunate  as  to  have  been  born  in  Scotland  or 
descended  from  Scotch  ancestors,  and  doubtless  my  talk- 
ing in  such  presence  is  responsible  for  my  plight  tonight. 

I  cannot  now  recall  when  I  first  began  to  read  Burns. 
Except  in  a  general  way  I  cannot  now  say  what  first 
attracted  or  drew  me  towards  him.  I  do  know  what  con- 
tinues to  draw  me  in  that  direction  and  what  will  hold  me 
fast  to  him  as  a  friend  so  long  as  life  continues.  I  am  not 
quite  sure,  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  his  Ode  to 
Poverty  was  the  first  of  his  minor  poems  which  I  read  or 
heard  read,  and  I  was  so  charmed  with  its  truth  and 
earnestness  that  I  began  to  read  and  study  the  poet.  The 
Doric  dialect  of  South  Scotland,  in  which  Burns  wrote, 
only  increased  the  charm  of  his  writing  for  me.  The 
more  of'  him  I  read  the  more  I  wanted  to  read ;  the 
stronger  grew  my  admiration  as  I  read,  and  my  love  for 
him  as  an  older  brother,  who  suffered  much,  who  endured 
poverty  and  hardship,  and  yet  during  his  all  too  brief  life 
set  beacon  lights  along  the  path  of  human  life,  to  warn  his 
fellow  men  of  the  pit-falls  into  which  he  himself  had  so 
frequently  fallen. 

My  slight  knowledge  of  the  German  language  made 
it  easier  for  me  to  understand  the  Scotch  dialect.  I  always 
found  an  exquisite  pleasure  in  tracing  the  wandering  of 
words  from  people  to  people,  from  language  to  language. 
History  furnishes  no  stronger  proof  than  language  that 
the  time  was  when  man  to  man  the  world  o'er  were 
brothers.  The  poet  says:  "Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  of  wine, 
and  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie."  "Tassie"  is  the  German 
"tasse,"  English  "cup."  In  the  song  of  Burns  where  the 
young  lassie  considers  what  she  could  best  do  with  her 
auld  man,  the  young  wife  complains  that  "he  hosts  and  he 
hirples."  "Hosts"  is  the  German  "Husten."  to  cough.  You 
remember   "That   sark   she  coft   for  her   wee   Nannie." 

67 


"Coft"  is  the  German  "kaufen,"  to  buy.  I  rede  ye — rede, 
the  German  "rede" — EngHsh,  speech  or  discourse.  "May 
you  better  reck  the  rede  than  ever  did  the  adviser."  "Reck" 
is  the  German  "rechen,"  which  means  to  count  or  cal- 
culate. "Skaith,"  Scotch — for  injury,  is  the  German 
word  "schade,"  ("The  Deil  he  could  no  skaith  thee") 
as  the  Scotch  "blate"  is  the  German  "bloede"  ; — "sicker" — 
secure  ; — "unsicker" — insecure — German  sicher.  "Geek" 
— {"y^  S^<^^  fl^  "^^  because  I'm  poor") — German  gucken. 
The  Cotter  "zvales"  a  portion  of  the  big  Ha'  Bible,  with 
judicious  care — German  Wiihlen — choose. 

These  are  simply  illustrations  of  what  to  me  was  an 
additional  charm  in  the  language  of  Burns.  Burns  has 
sung  himself  into  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  the  world 
over,  and  he  will  remain  there  enshrined  until  time  is  no 
more.    Every  great  poet  is  a  prophet.     Burns  was  such. 

"He  smote  the  earth  with  the  rod  of  his  mouth,  and 
with  the  breath  of  his  lips  did  he  slay  the  wicked."  He 
had  a  message  to  deliver.  He  expressed  it  throughout  his 
poems  in  manifold  ways. 

In  the  ode  to  General  Washington's  birthday  he 
expresses  it  thus : 

"But  come  ye  Sons  of  Liberty, 
Columbia's  offspring,  brave  as  free, 
In  danger's  hour  still  flaming  in  the  van, 
Ye  know,  and  dare   maintain   the   Royalty  of   Man." 

and  again : 

"Is  there  for  honest  poverty 
That  hangs  his  head  an'  a'  that 
The  coward  slave  — we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 
Our  toils  obscure  an'  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 

The  pith  of  sense  and  pride  of  worth,  the  genuine  in 
man  as  against  cant  and  hypocrisy,  the  false  in  man  are 
the  chief  notes  of  his  song.    In  a  broad  sense,  he  sang  and 

68 


taught  the  worth  of  man;  that  life  is  worth  the  living,  if 
lived  worthily. 

As  his  great  countryman  expresses  it : 

"To  the  ill-starred  Burns  was  given  the  power  of  making 
man's  life  more  venerable,  but  that  of  wisely  guiding  his  own 
life  was  not  given." 

You  may  sing  loud  and  you  may  sing  long,  but  unless 
there  is  sweetness  and  truth  — I  should  say  the  sweet- 
ness of  truth — in  the  voice  that  sings,  the  louder  you  sing, 
the  smaller  will  your  audience  become  until  it  dwindles  to 
the  singer  alone. 

That  Burns  sang  the  truth  sweetly,  is  not  only  demon- 
stratable  from  his  own  writings,  but  is  likewise  proven  by 
his  constantly  growing  audience. 

Commencing,  as  he  did,  with  a  few  peasant  listeners 
in  his  Ayrshire  home,  he  had  before  his  death  an  audience 
wide  as  the  confines  of  the  English  language,  which  since 
his  death  has  swollen  into  a  loving  and  reverent  audience, 
embracing  the  civilized  world  wherever  an  articulate 
tongue  is  spoken.  His  poems  have  been  translated  into 
German,  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Dutch,  Danish,  Hun- 
garian, Swiss  and  even  into  Latin  verse — aye,  even  into 
Russian ;  and  who  knows,  but  that  the  leaven  of  his  cry 
for  the  royalty,  the  worth  of  man — as  man,  is  today  work- 
ing in  that  semi-civilized  country,  teaching  the  Russian 
peasant  that  it  is  man's  inhumanity  to  man  makes  count- 
less thousands  mourn,  and  that  the  pith  of  sense  and  pride 
of  worth  are  higher  rank  than  a  belted  knight. 

In  1786  the  first  edition  of  his  poems  was  published, 
known  as  "The  Kilmarnock  Edition."  Every  year  since 
that  memorable  year,  1786,  almost  without  exception, 
somewhere  among  the  sons  of  men  whom  Burns  so  loved, 
some  volume  by  Burns  or  concerning  him  has  been  pub- 
lished, and  in  some  of  those  years  many  volumes  were 
published,  until  now  the  bibliography  of  Burns,  things 
written  by  and  of  him,  in  the  various  quarters  of  the  globe, 
including  only  single  copies  of  each  edition  of  such  publi- 
cations, would  constitute  a  library  of  more  than  one  thous- 
and volumes. 

69 


What  does  all  this  mean  ?  It  can  have  only  one  sig- 
nificance, and  that  is,  that  Burns  had  a  world-wide  mes- 
sage to  deliver,  which  men  were  eager  to  hear,  and  for 
which  the  human  soul  hungered ;  that  his  message  was 
true  and  came  from  the  heart  of  one  man  to  the  hearts  of 
his  fellow-men,  not  only  to  his  fellow-Scot,  but  to  his 
fellow-man  the  world  over. 

If  it  could  ever  be  said  truthfully  of  any  poet  in  any 
language,  it  must  be  said  of  Burns  that  he,  indeed,  "found 
tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in 
stones,  and  good  in  everything."  Notwithstanding  the 
truth  of  this  assertion  it  may  not  be  unbecoming  in  me  to 
say,  since  the  local  press  has  been  discussing  a  censorship 
of  the  stage,  that  our  own  beloved  poet  would  have  been 
put  in  the  index  librorimi  prohibitorum  or  at  least  in  the 
index  expurgatorins  long,  long  ago,  if  orthodoxy  had  its 
way;  and  this  is  quite  evident  from  a  pamphlet  published 
in  1811  entitled,  "Burnsiana,  addressed  to  real  Christians 
of  every  denomination,"  by  the  Rev.  William  Peebles,  and 
another  pamphlet  published  in  1869,  entitled  "Should 
Christians  commemorate  the  birthday  of  Robert  Burns," 
by  the  Rev.  Fergus  Ferguson.  I  have  never  read,  nor 
have  I  ever  seen  a  copy  of  either  of  these  oblivion-seeking 
publications ;  and  the  publications,  except  to  the  curious 
students  of  Burns,  have  dropped  where  they  belong,  into 
"the  insatiate  maw  of  oblivion";  but  if  there  had  been  a 
censorship  of  the  press  in  Burns'  day,  Burns  would  have 
been  barred.  The  very  names  of  Rev.  Fergus  Ferguson 
and  the  Rev.  William  Peebles  sound  strange  to  our  ears, 
and  except  for  the  fact  that  each  of  these  reverend  gentle- 
men, during  a  long  and  useful  life,  wrote  a  monograph 
upon  a  subject  connected  with  the  name  of  Robert  Burns, 
they  would  '^ow  be  buried  so  deep  in  the  bottomless  pit  of 
oblivir>ri  that  the  trumpet  of  the  Angel  Gabriel  would  not 
disturb  their  rest. 

In  1859  a  chronicle  of  the  hundredth  birthday  of 
Burns  was  published  at  Edinburgh,  containing  an  account 
of  more  than  eight  hundred  meetings  held  in  various  parts 

70 


of  the  English-speaking  world,  together  with  the  most 
important  speeches  delivered  at  such  meetings.  Here  one 
hundred  years  after  the  birth  of  Burns  was  an  answer  to 
the  Rev.  Fergus  Ferguson,  an  answer  unanimously  in  the 
affirmative,  that  Christians — genuine  Christians — not  nec- 
essarily those  who  wear  the  garb  o7  sanctity,  should  com- 
memorate the  birthday  of  Robert  Burns ;  and  in  behalf  of 
at  least  a  portion  of  the  non-Christian  population  of  the 
universe,  I  affirm  that  the  Jews  should  likewise  commem- 
orate the  birthday  of  Robert  Burns ;  Robert  Burns  was  a 
prophet  in  Israel,  and  like  a  veritable  prophet,  he  speaks  to 
the  genuine  man  of  every  clime  and  all  times,  to  all  those 
who  answer  in  the  affirmative,  the  questions,  "Have  we 
not  all  one  Father?"  "Hath  not  one  God  created  us  all?" 
Cunning  and  hypocrisy  had  invaded  the  Church  of  Scot- 
land in  Burns'  day,  as  they  had  churches  in  other  days, 
and  as  thev  will  continue  to  invade  the  church  in  yet  other 
days.  Burns  had  little  patience  with  public  censors — 
those  who  had  "naught  to  do  but  mark  and  tell  their 
neighbors'  faults  and  follies."  Every  age  is  afflicted  with 
the  pestiferous  censor — the  man  who  wants  to  cut  and 
determine  for  his  supposed  weaker  brothers,  the  pattern 
of  a  moral  life ;  unfortunately  these  pattern  makers  do 
little  else  than  make  patterns.  Now,  a  pattern  is  in  and 
of  itself  worthless,  unless  you  fashion  something  useful  by 
means  of  it.  The  iron-worker  uses  his  mold,  but  you 
can't  use  the  mold  or  pattern  for  building  a  structure  and 
if  the  iron-worker  did  no  more  than  make  patterns,  he 
would  live  a  very  useless  life.  He  must  do  something  with 
his  pattern,  he  must  make  articles  of  utility  or  of  beauty, 
and  if  he  did  nothing  more  than  stand  idly  by  and  criticise 
the  work  of  others  he  is  fulfilling  not  the  purpose  of  the 
creator — who  only  criticised  his  own  work,  and  that  after 
it  was  completed  and  done —  but  he  is  following  the 
example  of  old  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick  or  Clootie,  whatever 
his  title  may  be — creating  nothing,  but  always  seeking  "to 
scaud  poor  wretches." 

Burns  scotched  the  Pharisees,  the  rigidly  righteous 
of  his  day — the  attendants  at  the  solemn  meetings — those, 

71 


who  "for  a  pretence  make  long  prayers,"  as  did  Isaiah  his 
hypocritical  contemporaries ;  as  Jesus  of  Nazareth  flayed 
the  same  everlasting  species  in  his  day.  "The  blind  guides 
which  strain  at  a  gnat,  and  swallow  a  camel ;"  "the  hypo- 
crites who  pay  their  tithe  of  mint  and  anise  and  cummin, 
and  omit  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law ;"  "those  who  do 
all  their  work  for  to  be  seen  of  men,"  "those  who  sit  in  the 
chief  seats  of  the  synagogues,"  who  occupy  the  front 
pews  of  the  churches — those,  in  short,  who  have  "devo- 
tions' every  grace,  except  the  heart" — these,  all  these  and 
their  name  is  legion,  were  scourged  by  Burns  with  true 
prophetic  fire — and  these  self-same  Scribes  and  Pharisees 
are  those  who  speak  and  write  of  Burns'  irreligiousness. 
A  brother  prophet  in  Israel  had  sung : 

"The  ox  knoweth  its  ozvner,  and  the  ass  his  master's  crib;  but 
Israel  doth  not  know;  my  people  doth  not  consider." 

"Bring  no  more  vain  oblations,"  sang  Isaiah.  "Incense  is  an 
abomination  unto  me.  The  nezv  moons  and  sabbaths,  the  calling 
of  assemblies  (church  meetings)  I  cannot  end/ure.  It  is  iniquity, 
even  the  solemn  meeting.  Your  new  m)oon  and  your  appointed 
feasts  my  soul  hateth.  They  arc  a  trouble  unto  me;  I  am  weary 
to  bear  them.  And  when  you  spread  forth  your  hands  I  zuill  hide 
mine  eyes  from  you;  yea,  when  you  make  many  prayers  I  will  not 
hear.  Your  Ihnds  are  full  of  blood,  wa^sh  ye!  Make  yourselves 
clean;  Put  away  the  evil  of  your  doings  from  before  mine  eyes; 
Cease  to  do  evil;  Learn  to  do  well;  Seek  judgment,  relieve  the 
oppressed,  judge  the  fatherless,  plead  for  the  widow.  The  princes 
are  rebellious  and  companions  of  thieves.  Everyone  loves  gifts 
and  follozveth  after  rewards.  (Just  as  the  boodlers  of  our  day.) 
They  judge  not  the  fatherless,  neither  doth  the  cause  of  the  widow 
come  unto'  them." 

Thus  sang  the  old  Hebrew  prophet.  It  is  easily 
imaginable  that  if  we  had  all  that  was  written  by  some 
of  the  orthodox  ministers,  (some  of  the  "unco  guid")  of 
and  concerning  Isaiah,  there  would  be  found  among  the 
lot  one  with  the  title  page,  "Should  Israelites  commem- 
orate the  birth-day  of  Isaiah?" 

Burns  might  have  written  the  foregoing  quotation 
from  Isaiah.  He  did  write  so  many  like  it  that  the  preach- 
ers in  his  day  thought  doubtless — as  the  priests  did  of 

72 


Isaiah,  that  Burns  was  irrehgious.  Many  so-called  critics 
of  Burns  attribute  his  attacks  on  the  church  to  motives  of 
personal  rancor ;  but  how  little  they  understand  the  poet ! 
The  true  poet  sees  the  very  soul  of  things.  The  rotten- 
ness was  in  the  church,  and  it  was  this  corruption,  this 
humbug  and  hypocrisy  within  the  church  that  stirred  the 
ire  of  Burns  as  it  stirred  the  soul  of  the  ancient  prophet 
under  similar  circumstances  in  the  religion  of  Israel. 

Burns  had  no  patience  with  the  new  moon,  the 
sabbath,  the  appointed  feasts,  the  solemn  meetings,  and 
the  many  prayers  uttered  from  the  lips.  They  were  to  him 
as  they  were  to  Isaiah  an  abomination,  because,  in  the 
language  of  Burns,  these  things  were  done : 

"In  all   the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart. 

He  had  no  patience  with  such  lip  service,  but  that  he 
was  devoutly  truly  religious,  his  poems  abundantly  prove. 
No  one  can  read  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  which 
contains  that  beautiful  description  of  religious  life  in  the 
home  of  the  poor  peasant — his  own  father's  home —  with- 
out feeling  that  Burns  was  essentially  and  truly  religious. 

In  his  epistle  to  the  Rev.  John  McMath,  he  says : 

"I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces. 
Their  sigh'n,  cantin'  grace-proud  faces. 
Their  three-mile  prayers  and  half-mile   graces." 

And  in  this  same  epistle  he  apostrophizes  thus : 

"All  Hail,  Religion,  Maid  Divine, 
Pardon  a  muse  so  mean  as  mine, 
Who  in  her  rough,  imperfect  line, 
Thus  dares  to  name  thee; 
To  stigmatize  false  friends  of  thine, 
Can  ne'er  defame  thee." 

It  seems  to  me  quite  obvious  that  Burns,  like  the 
earlier  prophets,  was  fighting  the  devil  and  his  imps,  even 
though  such  imps  were  dressed  in  cloth  and  wore  the 
livery  of  heaven.    It  seems  to  me  that  he  was  only  proving 

73 


how  truly  religious  he  was  when  fighting  and  opposing, 
tooth  and  nail,  as  he  always  did,  sham  and  cant,  and  those, 
as  he  puts  it, 

"Who  take  Religion  in  their  mouth,  but  never  have  it  else- 
where." 

This  seems  so  plain  to  me  that  it  is  hard  for  me,  not 
wearing  orthodoxy's  hood,  to  understand  how  anyone 
could  ever  have  questioned  Burns'  religious  nature.  If 
Burns  had  never  known  and  felt  the  purity  and  holiness  of 
religion,  if  he  had  never  known  religion  in  its  reality,  he 
could  never  have  satirized  its  bastard  offspring  as  he  did 
in  "The  Holy  Tulyie,"  "Holy  Willie's  Prayer,"  "The  Holy 
Fair,"  and  the  address  to  the  "Unco  Guid."  H  his  own 
religious  feeling  was  not  genuine,  whence  came  his  burn- 
ing indignation  at  the  "false  sighin',  cantin',  grace-proud 
faces,  three-mile  prayers  and  half-mile  graces." 

Burns  did  not  believe  in  the  orthodox  Hell,  nor  in  the 
doctrine  of  eternal  damnation  as  taught  by  the  church ; 

"The  fear  o'  Hell's  a  hangman's  whip, 
To  haud  the  wretch  in  order, 
But  where  ye  feel  your  Honor  grip, 
Let  that  ay  be  3'our  border." 

I  conclude  by  calling  your  attention  to  a  scurvy  screed 
written  by  Elbert  Hubbard,  a  king  among  fakirs,  who 
makes  books  for  a  living.  The  screed  is  one  of  his  little 
journeys,  entitled  "Robert  Burns."  It  should  be  entitled 
"Elbert  Hubbard,"  for,  it  is  evidently  evolved  from  his 
inner  consciousness,  is  not  based  on  the  life  and  work  of 
Burns,  and  is  so  palpably  an  effort  on  the  part  of  Hubbard 
to  drag  the  gifted  Burns  down  to  his  own  level  that  the 
pamphlet  is  positively  disgusting.  It  is  so  flattering  to  a 
small  soul  to  find  that  Burns  went  a  kennin  wrang,  but 
the  poor  fellow  whose  morals  are  so  frayed  and  tattered, 
and  whose  vision  is  so  blurred  and  dimmed  as  to  be  able 
to  see  in  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  only  a  tip  to 
t'other  side,  that  is,  the  side  of  excess  and  vice,  is,  indeed, 
to  be  pitied.    This  poem,  Hubbard  says,  was  written  after 

74 


a  debauch,  just  as  after  a  debauch  a  man  might  sign  a 
pledge  and  swear  off,  and  that  this  is  true  of  all  of  Burns' 
religious  poems.  This  great  critic  at  East  Aurora  says 
that  all  of  Burns'  religious  poems  were  simply  a  recoil 
from  excesses  of  the  flesh  ;  and  thus  hath  another  self- 
appointed  commentator  on  Burns  damned  himself  out  of 
his  own  mouth. 

Bums  has  been  criticised,  his  life  and  his  life's  work 
discussed  by  a  number  of  the  British  essayists,  including 
Lord  Jeffrey,  Christopher  North,  Thomas  Carlyle  and 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson ;  his  work  as  a  poet  has  been 
discussed  by  professors  of  universities,  bearing  all  kinds 
of  degrees,  and  it  remains  for  this  wise  man  at  East 
Aurora,  in  the  State  of  New  York,  to  discover  the  real 
origin  of  Burns'  greatness  as  a  poet. 

Christopher  North,  in  his  "Recreations,"  said  of 
Burns : 

"When  he  sings,  it  is  like  listening  to  a  linnet  in  the 
broom,  a  blackbird  in  the  brake,  a  laverock  in  the  sky;  they 
sing  in  the  fullness  of  their  joy,  as  nature  teaches  them;  and 
so  did  he;  and  the  man,  woman  or  child,  who  is  delighted  not 
with  such  singing,  be  their  virtues  what  they  may,  must  never 
hope  to  be  in  Heaven." 

And  so  1  may  well  say  of  the  man  who  in  all  serious- 
ness writes  and  publishes  in  this  day  and  generation  that 
the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  is  the  result  of  a  debauch, 
he  can  never  hope  to  escape  Hell — he  is  already  there. 


75 


OCOTTISH  Day  at  the  World's  Fair  was  celebrated  August 
^  15,  1904,  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  A  company  of  Highlanders  escorted  other  Scottish 
organizations  of  St.  Louis  through  the  grounds  to  the  Burns 
Cottage  where  President  David  R.  Francis  extended  a  wel- 
come in  behalf  of  the  Exposition  management.  W.  R.  Smith, 
curator  of  the  Botanical  Gardens  at  Washington,  a  lover  of 
Burns,  of  international  fame,  responded.  The  Scottish  flag 
was  raised.  Auld  Lang  Syne  was  sung.  In  the  Hall  of 
Congresses,  the  celebration  was  continued,  with  Joseph  A. 
Graham  presiding.  A  poem  on  Robert  Burns,  by  Willis 
Leonard  McClanahan,  was  read  by  Maye  McCamish  Hedrick. 
Ingersoll's  tribute  to  "The  Place  Where  Burns  was  Born" 
was  read.  Frederick  W.  Lehmann,  a  member  of  the  Exposi- 
tion board  and  chairman  of  the  committee  on  International 
Congresses,  later  solicitor  general  of  the  United  States, 
delivered  the  address. 


c 
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> 

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D 
en 


o 


BURNS  OF  THE 
"AULD  CLAY  BIGGIN" 

By  Frederick  W.  Lehmann 
Scottish  Day,  August  IS,  1904 

AMONG  the  many  structures  which  have  been  reared 
^  upon  these  <^rounds  to  iUustrate  the  achievements, 
during  a  hundred  years,  of  a  free  people  in  a  free  land, 
none  has  more  rightful  place  than  that  which  so  faithfully 
represents  the  "auld  clay  biggin"  in  which  Robert  Burns 
was  born.  Called  untimely  from  this  life  ere  yet  the  lan- 
guage in  which  he  wrote  was  heard  here,  though  he  him- 
self had  never  set  foot  beyond  the  borders  of  his  own 
country,  the  rich  fruitage  of  his  genius  is  none  the  less 
a  part  of  the  heritage  of  our  people.  Throughout  the 
■joetry  of  Burns  breathes  the  spirit  of  our  institutions,  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  the  Proclamation  of  Eman- 
cipation, and  here  we  have  endeavored  to  realize,  as  nearly 
as  human  effort  may,  the  great  truth  that. 

•'The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 

The  artificial  verse  of  modern  pessimism  has  given  us 
a  description  of  the  "man  with  the  hoe,"  which  Burns 
would  not  have  accepted  as  a  portrait.  When  he  wrote 
his  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  he  drew  his  inspiration 
not  from  a  foreign  canvas,  but  from  his  own  experience. 
The  cotter  he  describes  was  his  own  father,  and  of  the 
children  who  knelt  at  the  ingleside  to  join  in  the  worship 
of  God,  Robert  was  one.  The  cotter  of  Burns'  inspiring 
and  uplifting  poem  toiled  as  hard  as  ever  did  Markham's 
man  with  the  hoe,  but  he  was  not  a  dull  soulless  clod ;  the 
light  of  intelligence  was  in  his  eye  and  the  fervor  of 
ambition  was  in  his  breast.  He  had  been  little  at  school, 
but  he  was  an  educated  man.  His  books  were  few,  but 
he  read  and  re-read  them  until  he  made  their  learning  and 


wisdom  his  own.  He  had  strong  convictions  concerning 
his  position  in  the  order  of  the  universe,  and  his  sense  of 
nearness  to  God  prevented  his  abasement  in  the  sight  of 
his  fellowmen.  As  his  Hfe  darkened  to  its  close,  the  hope 
that  he  had  for  himself  he  retained  for  his  children,  and 
to  the  utmost  of  his  ability  he  strove  to  fit  them  for  what- 
ever place  they  might  be  called  to  by  duty  or  opportunity. 

At  five  years  of  age  Robert  was  sent  to  school  at 
Alloway  Mill,  and  later  the  father  joined  with  four  of  his 
neighbors  to  hire  a  teacher  for  their  children.  These  early 
years  were  well  employed.  Every  moment  that  could  be 
spared  from  work  was  spent  in  study.  He  read,  not  only 
his  school  books,  but  Shakespeare,  the  Spectator,  Pope, 
Ramsay,  and  above  all,  a  collection  of  old  Scottish  songs. 
*T  pored  over  them,"  said  he,  "driving  my  cart,  or  walking 
to  labor,  song  by  song,  verse  by  verse,  carefully  noting 
the  true,  tender  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian. 
I  am  convinced  I  owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic 
craft,  such  as  it  is."  His  mother  was  learned  in  the 
legends  and  ballads  of  her  country,  and  she  brightened  the 
evenings  of  her  humble  home  by  recounting  them  to  her 
children. 

There  was  little  variety  in  this  life.  It  was  strenuous 
in  its  labor  and  its  study,  and  simple  in  its  recreations.  Its 
burdens  were  hard  to  be  borne.  This  showed  itself  in  the 
early  stoop  of  the  poet's  shoulders,  in  his  frequent  sick- 
ness and  moods  of  melancholy.  But  it  was  not  always 
dark.  He  found  a  charm  in  the  books  he  pored  over  so 
greedily,  and  a  profound  pleasure  in  the  companionships 
which  the  work  and  the  play  of  the  countryside  brought 
him. 

Much  has  been  written  concerning  his  habits  during 
the  years  of  his  early  manhood,  but  the  testimony  of  those 
who  had  the  best  opportunities  for  observation  is  that  he 
was  not  a  dissipated  man.  Indeed,  his  time  must  in  the 
main  have  been  well  spent.  His  letters  and  his  conversa- 
tion showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  culture,  as  surely  as  his 
poems  showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  genius.    At  the  age  of 

78 


twenty-seven,  when  the  mode  of  his  Hfe  had  changed  but 
little,  and  certainly  not  for  the  better,  he  went  from  his 
farm  life  in  Ayrshire  to  spend  a  winter  in  Edinburgh  with 
the  highest  fashion  of  that  city,  and  he  towered  like  Saul 
among  his  brethren  in  a  company  made  up  of  men  like 
Dugald  Stewart  and  Hugh  Blair.  He  was  the  center 
of  attraction  at  every  hospitable  board,  not  as  a  spectacle 
of  nine  days'  wonder,  but  as  a  companion  of  inspiring 
presence,  not  alone  to  set  the  table  in  a  roar,  but  as  a  man 
learned  among  scholars  and  wise  among  sages.  Into  the 
gay  assemblies  of  the  city  where  the  Duchess  of  Gordon 
held  sway,  he  came  as  a  gentleman,  and  the  Duchess  her- 
self had  to  acknowledge  that  there  was  no  resisting  the 
charm  and  fascination  of  his  manner.  And  yet  what 
acquirements  and  accomplishments  he  had,  he  got  from 
his  farm  life,  and  from  that  he  got  all  the  inspiration  of 
his  muse.  In  no  spirit  of  mock  humility  did  he  tell  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Caledonia  Hunt  that  the  muse  of  his 
country  found  him  at  the  plough  tail.  There  she  found 
him,  and  hardly  ever  seems  she  to  have  sought  him  else- 
where. It  is  wonderful  how  little  impress  his  winter  in 
Edinburgh  made  upon  his  verse.  It  may  have  led  him 
to  look  a  little  more  to  smoothness  and  polish,  but  he  got 
from  it  no  inspiration. 

The  poet,  we  were  told  long  ago,  is  born  and  not 
made.  We  look  in  vain  into  the  birth  and  circumstances 
of  the  world's  greatest  children  for  an  explanation  of 
their  genius.  The  unlettered  Homer  was  the  great  bard 
of  Greece.  From  among  the  humblest  dwellers  on  the 
Avon  came  the  master  spirit  of  our  drama,  who  made 
the  passions  of  princes  and  the  ambitions  of  kings  the 
sport  of  his  genius.  And  from  a  clay  cot  near  the  banks 
of  the  Doon  the  world  has  gotten  its  sweetest  heritage 
of  song. 

Before  Burns  was  fifteen  years  old,  his  powers  dis- 
played themselves.  In  the  labors  of  the  harvest  his  part- 
ner was  a  beautiful  girl  a  year  younger  than  himself. 
and  she  instilled  in  him,  he  tells  us,  "that  delicious  passion, 

79 


which  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence, 
and  book-worm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  human 
joys.  .  .  .  Among  her  love-inspiring  qualities  she 
sang  sweetly ;  and  it  was  her  favorite  reel  to  which  I 
attempted  giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  .  .  . 
Thus  v/ith  me  began  love  and  poetry." 

To  the  gude-wife  of  Wauchope  House  he  wrote  in 
after  years, 

"When  first  among  the  yellow  corn 
A  man  I  reckoned  was, 
An'  wi'  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 


E'en  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power, 
O  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast, 
That  I  for  puir  auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some  useful  plan  or  buik  might  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least." 


He  wrote  for  years,  but  without  publishing,  and  such 
currency  as  his  poems  had  they  got  through  the  circulation 
of  manuscript  copies  from  hand  to  hand.  His  reputation 
grew  throughout  the  countryside.  While  most  of  his 
verses  were  in  praise  of  his  fair  friends,  some  of  them 
were  bitter  lampoons  and  biting  satires  upon  those  he  con- 
ceived to  be  his  enemies,  and  so,  while  he  was  loved  by 
some,  he  was  feared  and  consequently  hated  by  others. 
In  the  religious  controversies  between  the  Old  Light  and 
the  New,  he  took  a  free  part,  and  there  was  more  than  one 
to  harbor  resentment  for  his  Holy  Fair  and  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer,  and  bide  his  time  to  indulge  it. 

Nor  had  they  long  to  wait.  Burns  was  soon  involved 
in  difficulties  from  which  he  saw  no  escape  save  in  flight. 
He  determined  to  quit  Scotland  and  to  try  his  fortune  in 
the  West  Indies.  To  acquire  the  means  of  doing  this,  and 
to  leave  some  remembrance  of  himself  in  his  native  land, 
he  ventured  upon  a  publication  of  his  poems. 

In  June  of  1786,  he  attended,  as  he  believed,  for  the 

80 


last  time,  the  meeting  of  the  Masonic  Lod.s^e  at  Tarbolton, 
and  takinjT  hjs  farewell  of  them  he  concluded. 

"A   last   request  permit  me  here. 
When  yearly  ye  assemble  a' 
One  round,  1  ask  it  with  a  tear. 
To  him,  the  bard,  that's  far  awa." 

Never  was  partinjr  prayer  more  richly  answered.  The 
children  and  the  children's  children  of  those  who  met 
with  him  at  Tarbolton  have  been  t^atliered  to  their  fathers, 
and  still  throughout  all  Scotland  and  in  far  distant  places, 
wherever  Scotia's  sons  and  daughters  have  wandered,  men 
and  women  yearly  gather  to  pay  the  richest  meed  that 
genius  can  win, — the  tribute  of  their  affections  to  his 
memory. 

Old  Fletcher  of  Saltoun  said  that  "if  a  man  were 
permitted  to  make  all  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who 
should  make  the  laws  of  a  nation."  Burns  wrote  the 
songs,  not  only  of  Scotland,  but  of  every  English  speaking 
nation,  of  countries  yet  unpeopled  when  he  wrote. 

The  Kilmarnock  edition  was  published  in  1786,  when 
he  was  twenty-seven  years  old.  The  popularity  of  the 
book  was  great  and  instant,  and  yet  he  realized  from  it  the 
meagre  sum  of  twenty  pounds,  not  much  more  than 
enough  to  pay  his  expected  passage  to  Jamaica,  and  less 
than  one-fifth  of  what  would  be  paid  for  a  single  copy  of  it 
at  the  present  time.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  with 
such  reward  for  such  work,  he  was  frequently  embar- 
rassed and  often  in  despondent  mood.  He  had  an  aversion 
to  debt  amounting  to  horror,  and  all  his  life  he  was  fight- 
ing against  it.  People  blamed  his  want  of  thrift  and  his 
habits  of  life;  it  might  have  served  better  to  extend  now 
and  again  a  helping  hand. 

The  reception  with  which  the  little  volume  met  deter- 
mined him  to  stay  at  home,  and  to  publish  a  second  edition 
of  the  book.  The  printe*-  was  willing  to  risk  the  expense 
of  the  printing,  but  he  insisted  on  being  guaranteed  the 
cost  of  the  paper;  and  for  this  the  meagre  profits  of  the 
first  edition  were  altogether  insufficient. 

81 


But  now  his  fame  was  not  confined  to  Ayrshire,  and 
his  ambitious  hopes  led  him  to  the  larger  field  of  the 
capital.  The  friends  he  made  there  came  to  his  assistance, 
and  the  subscriptions,  led  b}^  the  members  of  the  Caledon- 
ian Hunt,  gave  assurance  of  success  in  advance.  Five 
hundred  pounds  were  the  rewards  of  this  venture,  not 
secured,  however,  without  great  delay  and  difficulty,  his 
money  being  doled  out  to  him  from  time  to  time,  months 
elapsing  before  he  was  able  to  get  a  final  settlement  with 
his  publisher.  Two  hundred  pounds  he  gave  to  his 
brother,  who  had  undertaken  the  care  of  their  mother,  and 
the  remainder  he  invested  in  the  lease  of  a  farm  at  Ellis- 
land,  the  choice  of  the  place  being  determined  rather  by 
the  fancy  of  the  poet  than  by  the  judgment  of  the  farmer. 

His  improved  circumstances  on  his  return  from  Edin- 
burgh overcame  the  objections  which  the  parents  of  Jean 
Armour  had  made  to  him,  and  his  marriage  with  her, 
irregularly  contracted  long  before,  was  now  publicly 
acknowledged  and  approved  by  the  kirk. 

But  the  farm  was  a  failure,  and  the  earnings  of  his 
literary  labors  were  soon  lost  upon  it,  and,  much  against 
his  will,  he  accepted  a  place  in  the  excise  at  fifty  pounds 
per  year. 

What  he  thought  of  this  work  we  can  guess  from 

what  he  said : 

"Searching  auld  wives  barrels 
Och  on  the  day! 

That  clarty  barm  should  stain  my  laurels; 
But — what'll  ye  say? 

These  movin'  things  ca'd  wives  and   weans, 
Wad  move  the  very  heart  o'  stanes." 

But  the  best  sentiment  he  expressed  on  the  subject 
was  to  the  mother  of  Glencairn,  "I  would  much  rather 
have  it  said  that  my  profession  borrowed  credit  from  me, 
than  that  I  borrowed  credit  from  my  profession." 

He  left  Ellisland,  where  he  had  tried  in  vain  to  com- 
bine the  business  of  farmer  and  exciseman,  and  came  to 
Dumfries.     Of  his  life  in  this  city  there  has  been  much 

82 


criticism.  He  undoubtedly  partook  sometimes  too  deeply 
of  the  pleasures  of  the  social  bowl,  but  in  this  he  but 
shared  the  habits  of  his  time.  His  companionship  was 
sought  by  all  the  free  spirits  that  gathered  in  the  town,  for 
there  was  none  like  "rantin',  rovin'  Robin"  to  make  a  night 
of  mirth  and  merriment.  But  the  reports  of  his  conduct 
were  greatly  exaggerated,  not  only  by  his  enemies,  but  by 
himself.  In  his  periods  of  melancholy  he  was  much  given 
to  self  censure.  No  man  ever  acknowledged  his  faults 
more  freely  or  more  publicly,  and  if  he  had  said  less  of 
his  failings,  less  would  have  been  thought  of  them.  And 
much  of  the  reproach  against  him  was  due  to  his  political 
views  and  the  freedom  with  which  he  expressed  them. 
His  heart  responded  to  the  rising  spirit  of  independence  in 
France,  and  it  was  not  his  nature  to  stifle  his  convictions. 
To  be  a  revolutionist  was  to  lose  favor  in  the  social  realm, 
and  Burns  was  passed  unnoticed,  because  of  his  principles, 
by  many  who  had  small  occasion  to  scorn  him  because  of 
his  habits. 

His  dependence  upon  his  salary  as  exciseman  irritated 
him  and  deepened  his  despondency.  He  longed  for  a 
competency  that  he  might  be  independent;  but  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  fortune  mocked  his  every  thrifty 
endeavor. 

His  nature  was  too  sensitive  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
treatment  he  was  receiving.  A  friend  met  him  one  day 
walking  alone  on  the  shady  side  of  the  street,  while  the 
opposite  walk  was  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gentle- 
men and  ladies,  not  one  of  whom  seemed  willinor  jq  recosf- 
nize  the  poet.  The  friend  proposed  to  him  to  cross,  but  he 
answered,  "Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend,  that's  all  over 
now,"  and  then  quoted  a  verse    from  an  old  ballad, 

"His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  looked  better  than  mony  ane's  new. 
But  now  he  let's  't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing, 
And  casts  himself  dowie  upon  tlie  corn  bing." 

And  yet  it  was  during  his  Dumfries  residence  that 
Burns  wrote  most  of  his  songs.     He  had  been  gathering 

83 


old  ballads,  altering  and  adding  to  them  for  Johnson's 
Museum,  besides  contributing  some  of  his  own,  when 
George  Thomson  entered  upon  his  work  of  compiling 
Scottish  melodies  and  having  songs  written  for  them  by 
the  best  writers  of  the  day.  He  applied  to  Burns  for  the 
help  of  his  genius.  Burns  answered  at  once,  promising 
his  assistance,  and  redeemed  his  promise  by  contributing 
some  sixty  songs,  among  them  the  finest  efiforts  of  his 
lyric  muse.  And,  poor  as  he  was,  he  made  it  a  labor  of 
love.  "As  to  remuneration,"  he  wrote  to  Thomson,  "you 
may  think  my  songs  above  price  or  below  price ;  but  they 
shall  be  absolutely  one  or  the  other.  In  the  honest 
enthusiasm  with  which  I  embark  in  your  undertaking,  to 
talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  hire,  etc.,  would  be  downright 
prostitution  of  soul." 

The  man  who  could  write  songs  like  "Highland 
Mary,"  "Bannockburn,"  and  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That," 
and  make  them,  even  when  broken  with  disease  and 
oppressed  with  poverty,  a  free  gift  to  his  country,  is 
entitled  to  a  charity  in  judgment  broad  enough  to  cover 
more  sins  than  could  ever  be  laid  to  Burns'  charge. 

Not  until  a  few  days  before  his  death,  when  he  knew 
that  his  end  was  near,  and  an  importunate  creditor  was 
threatening  him  with  a  process  that  would  cast  him  in 
jail,  did  he  alter  his  purpose.  He  then  wrote  to  Thomson 
for  five  pounds,  for  which  he  says,  "I  promise  and  engage 
to  furnish  you  with  five  pounds'  worth  of  the  neatest  song 
genius  you  have  seen."  With  this  letter  he  enclosed  the 
lines  of  "Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  Banks."  Thomson  sent 
the  money,  the  creditor  was  paid,  and  within  a  week  Burns 
was  dead. 

"We  pity  the  plumage,  and  forget  the  dying  bird," 
cried  Shelley,  as  the  brilliant  Sheridan  lay  deserted  upon 
his  deathbed.  And  so  it  was  with  Burns.  There  was  a 
splendid  funeral.  All  Dumfries  marched  in  procession  to 
his  grave,  and  a  great  mausoleum  was  raised  above  it. 
And  happily  better  than  this,  though  late  it  came,  his 
family  received  the  substantial  recognition  of  his  labors 
that  was  denied  to  him. 

84 


When  he  passed  away  in  the  prime  of  his  early  man- 
hood, his  country  awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  was  the  great- 
est of  all  her  children.  No  man  before,  and  no  man  since, 
has  done  so  much  to  honor  her  name. 

He  gave  to  Scottish  literature  what  until  then  it 
wanted,  a  national  quality  and  character.  Men  of  letters 
there  were  before.  Hume  and  Robertson  had  written 
their  histories,  but  for  aught  that  appeared  in  them,  they 
might  have  come  from  south  of  the  Tweed.  Stewart  and 
Reid  belong  to  schools  rather  than  to  a  nation.  Ramsay 
and  Ferguson  were  not  strong  enough  to  make  an  impres- 
sion beyond  their  own  time.  Before  Burns,  the  Scottish 
tongue  had  not  attained  to  the  dignity  of  literary  recogni- 
tion. He  chose  it  deliberately  as  the  medium  of  his  song, 
and  it  mastered  him  as  much  as  he  mastered  it.  Little  of 
what  he  has  written  in  pure  English  rises  above  the  level 
of  mediocrity,  and  it  would  not  be  possible  to  anglicize  his 
Scottish  verse  without  distinct  impairment  of  its  poetic 
quality. 

The  theme  of  his  verse,  like  its  garb,  was  Scotch. 
It  was  his  country  and  her  people,  the  country  as  he  saw 
it,  the  people  as  he  knew  them.  The  scenes  he  describes 
are  those  with  which  he  was  familiar,  the  men  and  women 
his  every  day  acquaintances.  He  never  paraphrased  books 
and  he  never  copied  pictures.  And  beyond  the  confines 
of  his  country  he  had  never  traveled.  Was  he  not,  then, 
narrow  and  provincial  ?  In  a  sense  he  was,  as  all  genuine 
men  and  women  are.  Just  because  he  knew  Scotland  so 
well  and  loved  her  so  intensely,  was  he  a  poet  of  the  world 
and  of  humanity.  Love  of  home  is  a  universal  quality. 
Cosmopolitan  people  are  degenerate.  They  have  lost  more 
in  depth  than  they  have  gained  in  breadth.  The  man  who 
scorns  his  own  people  is  scorned  of  all  others.  The  ardent 
patriot  who  defends  his  country  in  every  emergency,  and 
not  the  captious  citizen  ever  ready  to  confess  her  faults, 
is  the  type  of  true  manhood,  understood  and  appreciated 
the  world  over. 

In  the  poetry  of  Burns  there  is  no  suggestion  of  the 
pent  atmosphere  of  the  study  infected  with  the  smoke  of 

85 


the  midnight  candle,  but  it  is  all  fresh  with  the  caller  air 
as  it  sweeps  over  heath  and  moor.  His  rhymes  came  to 
him  as  he  walked  the  fields  and  by  the  streams,  and  they 
are  the  harmonies  of  nature  set  to  song. 

There  is  a  quick  movement  in  all  his  composition.  He 
never  lingers  in  description.  A  line  will  serve,  or,  at  the 
most,  as  in  his  description  of  the  brook  in  Hallowe'en,  a 

verse. 

"Whyles  o'er  a  linn  the  burnie  plays 
As  thro'  the  glen  it  wimpelt, 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strays 
Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpelt; 
Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 
Wi'  bickerin'  dancin'  dazzle, 
Whyles  clookit  underneath  the  braes 
Below  the  spreading  hazel." 

In  his  song  of  "Westlin  Winds"  he  brings  the  birds  of 
Scotland  before  us,  each  in  a  line. 

"The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells, 
The  plover  loves  the  mountains, 
The  w^oodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells, 
The  soaring  hern  the  fountains; 
Through  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves. 
The  path  of  man  to  shun  it; 
The  hazel  bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush, 
The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet." 

The  essential  qualities  of  Burns'  poems  are  their  truth 
and  humanity.  His  scenic  descriptions  are  but  the  fram- 
ing of  some  human  incident,  and  he  uses  bird  and  beast 
and  flowers  always  to  point  some  moral  or  adorn  some 
tale  of  interest  to  man.  He  wrote  as  he  felt,  and  so  he 
wrote  sometimes  sadly  and  sometimes  bitterly ;  sadly,  for 
he  was  often  seized  with  melancholy,  and  bitterly,  because 
he  felt  often  that  he  was  harshly  used.  But,  fortunately 
for  us  and  for  him.  his  muse  sought  him  most  in  his 
brighter  moods,  and 

"We  see  amid  the  fields  of  Ayr 
A  ploughman  who  in  foul  or  fair, 
Sings  at  his  task, 
So  clear  we  know  not  if  it  is 
The  laverock's  song  we  hear  or  his, 
Nor  care  to  ask." 

86 


In  the  meanest  creature  and  the  humblest  incident 
that  enters  into  his  Hfe,  this  ploufj^hman  finds  a  poem, — 
in  the  daisy  that  he  upturns,  the  field  mouse,  a  wounded 
hare,  his  aped  ewe,  his  dog,  his  auld  mare,  the  ha^^gis,  and 
even  in  the  toothache.  And  a  louse  upon  a  lady's  bonnet 
furnishes  the  occasion  of  profound  moralizing. 

"O  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us, 
To  see  ourselves  as  ithers  see  us, 
It  wad  fra  mony  a  blunder  free  us. 
And  foolish  notion." 


In  all  literature  there  is  no  more  beautiful  picture  of 
humble  life  than  he  gives  us  in  the  "Cotter's  Saturday 
Night."  It  has  invested  the  cottage  with  a  charm  of 
interest  beyond  the  romance  of  the  castle.  It  has  lightened 
the  task  of  many  a  weary  toiler  and  kept  hope  in  the  heart 
of  the  heavy  laden,  and  above  all,  it  has  taught  that 

"To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 
For  weans  and  wife. 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 


Had  Burns  lived  longer,  or  had  his  circumstances  in 
life  been  different,  he  might  have  given  us  some  great  epic 
or  dramatic  work.  He  contemplated  one  but  it  was  never 
begun.  That  a  great  lyric  drama  was  within  the  reach  of 
his  powers,  his  cantata  of  "The  Jolly  Beggars"  abundantly 
proves.  But  "Tam  O'Shanter"  was  his  most  ambitious 
production,  and  this,  for  picturesque  description,  for  rapid 
transitions,  and  for  a  wonderful  blending  of  mirth  and 
morality,  is  not  to  be  surpassed. 

The  austere  critic  thinks  that  Burns  deals  too  lightly 
with  Tarn's  foibles,  and  so  he  thinks  of  Shakespeare  in  his 
dealing  with  FalstafT.  But  these  great  natures  were  kindly 
both,  and  could  see  the  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
and  their  teaching  loses  nothing  of  its  force  because  of  its 
gentleness. 

87 


Burns  could  not  even  rail  at  the  devil  without  speak- 
ing at  least  one  word  of  kindly  admonition. 

"Fare  you  vveel,  auld  nickie  ben! 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men! 
Ye  aiblins  might,  I  dinna  ken, 

Still  hae  a  stake 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake." 

The  songs  of  Burns  will  always  be  the  chief  delight  of 
his  readers,  for  they  run  the  whole  gamut  of  human 
passion  and  sentiment. 

He  sings  of  woman,  and  of  every  woman  that  ever 
touched  his  heart  or  caught  his  fancy,  and  then,  lest  some 
one  might  feel  slighted,  he  sang  to  all  the  sex  in  his 
"Green  grow  the  rashes  O !"  Criticism  of  these  songs  is 
impossible.  They  must  be  read,  or,  better,  they  must  be 
sung  by  some  loved  voice,  and  then  the  heart  will  feel 
their  power.  To  no  mere  trick  of  verse  do  they  owe  their 
charm.  It  is  the  genuineness  of  their  sentiment,  the  reality 
of  their  passion,  which  holds  us  in  thrall.  It  has  been 
noted  that  in  "Highland  Mary"  there  is  not  a  single  per- 
fect rhyme,  and  this  is  true,  but  who  cares  for  that,  it  is 
none  the  less  the  sweetest  song  ever  written  by  man  to 
commemorate  a  pure  and  a  lost  love. 

And  where  is  there  such  a  song  of  that  love  which 
never  grows  old  as  "John  Anderson,  My  Jo?" 

In  other  fields  of  lyric  verse,  he  is  also  the  master. 
What  drinking  song  better  than  "Willie  brewed  a  peck  of 
maut;"  what  battle  hymn  more  inspiring  than  "Bannock- 
burn  ?"  Who  has  sounded  in  such  trumpet  tones  the  prin- 
ciples of  equality  as  he  in  "A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that?" 
And  when,  among  the  many  millions  who  speak  the 
English  tongue,  friends  are  gathered  together,  in  what 
song  do  they  pour  out  their  gladness,  but  "Auld  Lang 
Syne  ?" 

He  pictured  himself  often  as  a  wreck  upon  life's  sea, 
and  envied  sometimes  those  whose  "prudent,  cautious  self 
control,"  kept  them  from  the  rocks;  and  yet,  of  all  the 

88 


merchant  argosies  that,  saiHnjj^  under  summer  skies  and 
over  summer  seas,  came  safely  into  the  port  of  their  des- 
tiny, how  many,  aye,  were  there  any.  bearing  in  their  holds 
a  freight  so  precious  to  humanit}-  as  the  flotsam  and  the 
jetsam  cast  asiiore  by  the  wreck  of  Robert  Burns? 

But  it  is  not  for  us  to  speak  of  his  life  as  a  wreck. 
Although  he  died  while  his  manhood  was  in  early  prime, 
he  had  realized  the  inspiring  wish  of  his  youth,  some  use- 
ful plan  or  book  to  make  or  sing  a  song  at  least.  He 
made  the  book,  he  sang  the  song,  and  the  book  is  read  and 
the  song  is  heard  the  wide  world  over. 


89 


ROBERT  BURNS 

By  Willis  Leonard  ClanahaD 
Read  by  Miss  Maye  McCamish  Hedrick 

Scottish  Day,  August  15,  1904 

O  Bard  of  Freedom,  on  whose  brow 
A  century's  fame  is  shining  now, 
Thy  spirit  be  with  us!  for  thou 

Has  taught  us  all 
How  men  who  must  to  monarchs  bow 

For  truth  may  fall. 

O  teacher  of  the  sons  of  men, 
By  burning  words  and  fervid  pen, 
Come,  and  abide  with  us  again. 

That  we  may  know 
The  soul  that  shone,  a  beacon,  then, 

With  deathless  glow! 

Though  mean  and  humble  was  thy  lot, 

Thy  parentage  all  but  forgot, 

Fame  sought  thee  where  the  crowd  was  not. 

And  brought  thee  forth, 
A  poet  from  a  lonely  cot, 

To  light  the  earth. 

Thy  songs,  that  smell  of  the  sweet  sod 
Where  bluebells  wave  and  thistles  nod, 
Where  barley  grows  and  plowmen  plod 

And  daisies  spring, 
Lift  up  the  eager  soul  to  God, 

Our  only  King. 

Of  love  and  truth,  what  tender  lays 
Thy  spirit  gave  us!    What  a  maze 
Of  passion  blinded  thee,  in  days 

When  thou  wert  young. 
And  sounded  forth  sweet  woman's  praise 

With  tuneful  tongue! 

What  songs  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 

That  shall  eternally  abide. 

Of  love  that  for  a  friend  had  died, 

Didst  thou  attune! 
Thou  wert  the  truth  personified, 

O  Bard  of  Doon! 

90 


Thou  didst  immortalize  the  land 

That  gave  thee  being.   Thou  didst  stand 

Alone,  unaided;  yet  thy  hand 

Wrote  down  the  fame 
Of  stern  old  Caledonia's  grand 

And  deathless  name. 

By  thee  in  human  hearts  wast  bred 
A  love  of  simple  things — a  dread 
Of  Cruelty  and  Wrong,  that  tread 

On  Truth  and  Right; 
Of  Avarice,  whose  greed  is  fed 

By  soulless  Might. 

By  thee  the  simple  creed  was  taught 
To  harm  no  man  by  deed  or  thought; 
To  pain  no  living  thing  in  aught, 

Be  't  mouse  or  man, 
That  in  His  wisdom  God  has  wrought 

In  His  great  plan. 

But  more  than  all  thy  soul  did  scan 

The  true  nobility  of  man. 
And  thou  didst  help  to  raise  the  ban 

From  spirits  cowed 
By  poverty — more  bitter  than 

The  grave  and  shroud. 

O  best-beloved  poet!  pray 
Accept  the  tribute  which  we  lay 
Before  thee  in  our  eager  way; 

Our  souls'  own  choice! 
Be  with  us  in  thy  house  to-day, 

While  we  rejoice. 


91 


npHE  reader  of  these  pages  will  note  that  most  of  the  quo- 
•*•  tations  from  Burns  are  in  the  Scottish  vernacular.  "The 
Doric  dialect  of  South  Scotland,  in  which  Burns  wrote,  only- 
increased  the  charm  of  his  writing  for  me,"  said  Judge  Sale. 
In  Mr.  Lehman's  address  was  this  more  extended  reference 
to  the  same  distinctive  quality  of  Burns'  writings:  "Before 
Burns  the  Scottish  tongue  had  not  attained  to  the  dignity  of 
literary  recognition.  He  chose  it  deliberately  as  the  medium 
of  his  song,  and  it  mastered  him  as  much  as  he  mastered  it. 
Little  of  what  he  has  written  in  pure  English  rises  above  the 
level  of  mediocrity,  and  it  would  not  be  possible  to  anglicize 
his  Scottish  verse  without  distinct  impairment  of  its  poetic 
quality." 

In  Mr.  Reedy's  opinion,  "the  poet  has  told  his  life  story 
in  his  song,  and  told  it  with  a  splendid  simplicity  in  the 
language  of  the  Scots  farmer  and  peasant.  When  he  essays 
literary  English,  speaking  generally,  the  magic,  the  glamour 
vanishes." 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  where  the  world  now  sees  charm 
and  strength  in  Burns,  his  earliest  literary  recognition  found 
fault.  A  copy  of  the  little  Kilmarnock  book  was  carried  to 
Edinburgh  by  Professor  Stewart  when  he  went  up  from  the 
banks  of  Ayr  to  commence  his  winter  session  at  the  uni- 
versity. It  was  given  to  Henry  Mackenzie  who  was  editing 
The  Lounger,  and  whose  judgment  as  a  critic  went  far  in 
that  generation.  Mackenzie  was  the  author  of  "The  Man  of 
Feeling,"  one  of  the  most  popular  books  of  the  day,  a  book 
which  Burns  in  his  youth  had  read  so  often  that  it  had  been 
worn  out.  Mackenzie  read  this  first  collection  of  Burns' 
poems  and  wrote  his  opinion  of  it  in  The  Lounger,  The 
review  introduced  Burns  to  the  literary  world.  At  a  meeting 
of  the  Burns  Club  of  St.  Louis  this  tribute  of  Mackenzie  was 
produced  and  read.  It  is  in  striking  contrast  with  the  present 
estimate  of  Burns.     Mackenzie  wrote: 

"In  the  discovery  of  talents  generally  unknown,  men  are 
apt  to  indulge  the  same  fond  partiality  as  in  all  other  dis- 
coveries which  themselves  have  made.  And  hence  we 
have  had  repeated  instances  of  painters  and  poets  who  have 
been  drawn  from  obscure  situations,  and  held  forth  to  public 
notice  and  applause  by  the  extravagant  enconiums  of  their 
introductors;  whose  merit  though  perhaps  somewhat  neg- 
lected, did  not  appear  to  have  been  much  under-valued  by  the 
world,  and  could  not  support  by  its  own  intrinsic  excellence 
that  superior  place  which  the  enthusiasm  of  its  patrons  would 
have  assigned  it. 

92 


"I  know  not  if  I  shall  be  accused  oi  such  enthusiasm  and 
partiality,  when  I  introduce  to  my  readers  a  poet  of  our  own 
country,  with  whose  writings  I  have  lately  become  acquainted; 
but  if  I  am  not  greatly  deceived,  1  think  I  may  safely  pro- 
nounce him  a  genius  of  no  ordinary  rank.  The  person  to 
whom  I  allude  is  Robert  Burns,  an  Ayrshire  ploughman, 
whose  poems  were  sometime  ago  published  in  a  country 
town  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  with  no  other  ambition,  if 
would  seem  than  to  circulate  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country  where  he  was  born,  to  obtain  a  little  fame  from 
those  who  had  heard  of  his  talents.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
thought  to  assume  too  much,  if  I  endeavor  to  place  him  in  a 
higher  point  of  view,  to  call  for  a  verdict  of  his  country  upon 
the  merits  of  his  works,  and  to  claim  for  him  those  honors 
which  their  excellence  appears  to  deserve." 

Then  followed  this  most  extraordinary  criticism  upon 
Burns: 

"One  bar  indeed  his  birth  and  education  have  opposed 
to  his  fame — the  language  in  which  most  of  his  poems  are 
written.  Even  in  Scotland,  the  provincial  dialect  which 
Ramsey  and  he  have  used  is  now  read  with  a  difficulty  which 
greatly  damps  the  pleasure  of  the  reader;  in  England  it 
cannot  be  read  at  all,  without  such  a  constant  reference  to 
a  glossary  as  nearly  to  destroy  that  pleasure.  Some  of  his 
productions,  however,  especially  those  of  the  grave  style  are 
almost  English." 


93 


Q  OME  three  hundred  Burns  Clubs  in  all  parts  of  the  world 

have  united  to  form  the  Burns  Federation.  The  Burns 
Club  of  St.  Louis  is  one  of  these.  The  objects,  as  set  forth 
in  the  constitution  of  the  Federation,  are: 

"To  strengthen  and  consolidate  by  universal  affiliation  the 
bond  of  fellowship  existing  among  the  members  of  Burns 
Clubs;  to  superintend  the  publication  of  works  pertaining  to 
Burns;  to  acquire  a  fund  for  the  purchase  and  preservation 
of  holograph  manuscripts  and  other  relics  connected  with  the 
life  of  the  poet." 

The  Federation  was  inaugurated  at  Kilmarnock.  There 
offices  are  maintained  in  connection  with  the  Burns  Library 
and  Museum.  Annual  meetings  of  the  Federation  are  held. 
A  periodical  known  as  the  Burns  Chronicle  is  issued.  At  the 
head  of  the  Federation  as  Honorary  Presidents  are  the  Earl 
of  Rosebery  and  Andrew  Carnegie.  Exchange  of  greetings  is 
one  of  the  pleasing  forms  in  which  the  relationship  between 
Burns    Clubs    find    expression. 

From  Poosie  Nansie's  Hostelry,  The  Jolly  Beggars' 
Burns  Club  sent  this  "warmest  greeting"  to  the  Burns  Club  of 
St.  Louis  on  the  1913  anniversary. 

Gie  us  a  canny  hour  at  e'en 
A'  met  in  Robin's  mem'ry  O, 
Then  warldly  cares  an'  warldly  spleen 
May  a'  gae  tapsalterie  O. 

Thomas  Harvey  of  Mauchline  founded  The  Jolly  Beggars 
Club,  as  he  explains  in  a  letter  to  President  Bixby,  "to 
remove  a  reproach,  there  being  none  when  I  came  here."  He 
is  a  native  of  Ayr.  From  family  tradition  he  has  contributed 
this  to  the  store  of  the  St.  Louis  Club's  information  about 
Burns: 

"It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  Burns,  when  at 
Kirkoswald  school,  spent  every  week  end  at  Dalwhat  farm, 
my  great  grandfather's,  John  Graham's.  John  Graham  was  a 
full  brother  of  Douglas,  tenant  of  O'Shanter,  Burns'  Tam. 
My  mother  told  me  Uncle  Douglas'  wife  was  very  supersti- 
tious and  believed  in  witches,  warlocks  and  the  like.  He 
had  a  lot  of  money  to  get  in  Ayr  one  market  day  and  had  it 
stored  in  his  bonnet.  It  came  on  a  fearful  night  and  on  the 
shore  road  he  was  nearly  blown  off  his  nag.  His  bonnet 
went  with  all  his  cash.  He  held  on  for  dear  life,  and  manu- 
factured the  story  about  AUoway  kirk  in  a  blaze  to  explain 

94 


the  loss  of  his  money  to  his  wife.  Siie  believed  it.  The 
story  spread  and  Burns  got  it  at  Dalwhat.  There  was  general 
laughter  afterwards  when  the  storm  subsided  and  Douglas 
quietly  mounted  and  searched  the  road,  luckily  finding  his 
bonnet  and  money  all  safe  in  a  wood  where  it  had  blown. 
Almost  in  his  last  years,  when  at  Dumfries,  Burns  told  the 
narrative  he  had  heard  at  Kirkoswald  to  Captain  Grose,  the 
antiquarian,  whom  he  there  met,  and  at  his  request  shaped 
and  put  it,  without  effort,  into  the  immortal  lines,  Tam 
O'Shanter." 


THE  BURNS  CLUB  OF 
ST.  LOUIS 


W.  K.  Bixby 

Scott  Blewett 
Hanford  Crawford 
Archibald  W.  Douglas 
David  R.  Francis 
Robert  Johnston 
Frederick  W.  Lehmann 
Saunders  Norvell 
Ben  Blewett 
David  R.  Calhoun 

George  M. 


J.  W.  Dick 
Franklin  Ferriss 
A.  S.  Greig 
David  F.  Houston 
George  S.  Johns 
Henry  King 
W.  Al.  Porteous 
M.  N.  Sale 
Walter  B.  Stevens 
M.  L.  Wilkinson 
Wright 


95 


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